Flowers of the Citadel
by SarahBelle
Summary: In an AU where Finduilas died when her third child was born her loss sews turmoil in the Steward's family. As her children grow so does the power of Mordor, and their greatest fear is that when the Shadow confronts them they will not be strong enough.
1. Foreword

**Disclaimer: I do not own J.R.R. Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings. All I own is my own original character.**

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Flowers of the Citadel

_In Tolkein's _The Lord of the Rings_, Finduilas, the mother of Boromir and Faramir, died in 2988, when Boromir was ten and Faramir was five. _

_This story is an attempt to answer queries that some people might well have asked, but have never really gotten around to answering: what if she had not died then? What if she had lived on for a while longer; and even conceived a third child, and carried it the full nine months? And what would happen when the child was born?_

_In this I will attempt to answer all those questions, rolled into one story, though separated into four books within the story._

_The first book is set in Minas Tirith, before the main plot of _The Lord of the Rings _starts, as the brothers and their sibling grow up together._

_The second book is focused mainly on Boromir, as he journeys North and becomes involved in the events of the original plot of _The Fellowship of the Ring

_The third book centres around Faramir, as the action of _The Two Towers_ begins to affect him in Ithilien._

_The fourth book returns the main characters to Minas Tirith, and integrates them with the events that play out from the beginning of _Return of the King.

_Hopefully, those questions will be answered, in the best possible way._

_It is the year 2989 – nearly 2990 – and Finduilas has just given birth to her first daughter. That is where this story begins._

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Note: For those of you who have been following this story avidly, I have decided to rejig it. This means that I have reworked the general idea of the story a little. It will still be basically the same, but set out in a different manner. Love and kudos to you all!_


	2. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. I only own my own original character.**

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Prologue

**_2989 of the Third Age_**

Denethor paced across the floor, his hands clasped tight behind his back and his robes swept the marble floor after his feet. He kept his eyes fixed on whatever wall he was facing at the time; first one, then the other, then another. The Steward of Gondor chewed his lip in nervousness.

A young voice made him actually bite his lip. "You know, father, if you keep on pacing, you will wear a hole in the floor, marble or not."

Denethor, despite himself, managed to smile at Boromir. He had almost forgotten his sons were in the room, but there they both were; Boromir, with his dark, shoulder length hair, seated at his ease on the stone bench against the wall; beside him Faramir, still with his baby-like curls, fast asleep upon his brother's shoulder. Though Boromir was only eleven, he already considered himself to be a man, and constantly acted as if he was grown; but he could always be coaxed out of that belief to play with his younger brother. Faramir, with all the vibrancy and wonder of a six year old, was always making up some new game, that always had to include his brother, and quite often their mother as well; occasionally their father, though, perhaps to Denethor's regret, he was often busy.

His smile faded, as he turned his gaze back to the door. Somewhere beyond the door, he knew, Finduilas was groaning, probably screaming, in pain.

"Papa," Boromir said more softly, gently getting up, so that he did not disturb Faramir, and coming forward, "do not worry. Mama will be just fine. It isn't as if this is her first time. She will be safe."

Denethor nodded confidently; and yet he took Boromir's hand in his own and squeezed it. Both knew how weak Finduilas had become in the past few months, both knew there had been some concerns from the healers as to her status of health. But when the child had begun to come, there had been no time to debate her state; they had had to act, and fast, if they wanted both mother and child to last through the birth unscathed.

Suddenly a faint scream echoed through the door, thrilling through their ears, and raising the hairs on the backs of their necks. Denethor squeezed his son's hand tighter.

_Why have I gotten her into this? _he asked himself. _Why have I made her go through this again?_

A sudden yawn echoed from behind them. Faramir had woken up, and was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Focusing on them, he murmured sleepily, "Father? Where is Mama?"

Denethor forced what he hoped was a warm smile onto his face, but he could not find it in himself to answer his second son, his young gaze unnerving him. When no answer came, Faramir turned his gaze to his brother, asking "Boromir?"

Boromir, walking over to his little brother, said gently, "Mama can't be here at the moment, Fari. She's very busy. We'll be able to see her in a little while."

"What is she doing?"

Boromir paused, then said, "She's making sure our little brother or sister is safe."

"Oh." Faramir snuggled down onto the bench again, losing interest. A little brother or sister was nothing special to the pampered younger child.

Boromir turned and smile reassuringly at his father, satisfied with his effort. Denethor returned the smile, but he knew that it was weak.

"Father, what's the matter?" Boromir straightened up, gazing keenly at his father. "Mother will fare well, won't she?"

Denethor considered. No one had told his sons of the full extent of the weakness that had plagued their mother, not even himself; he had believed they should not have to bear the burden of knowing that their mother was not invincible. Now, he wondered if that sentiment had been a mistake after all.

Taking a deep breath, he began. "Boromir, my son, you must know-"

But he had no chance to speak further, for at that instant the doors leading to the birthing chamber opened and one of the midwives, dressed in the customary red and yellow, the colours of life, hurried out into the hall. She panted slightly as if she had run a great distance in a very short time; and her face was flushed red as her hands.

"My lord," she said in a halting voice, "the Lady Finduilas had been delivered of a healthy child."

Denethor sighed with relief. One of his worries was assuaged; but there was another, more pressing matter. "And my lady, how fares she?"

The woman paused, and at the same moment, Denethor noticed that her hands were not red naturally, but were stained with blood.

A drum beat of his heart began to echo in his head, as he turned his unscrupulous gaze back to her face.

"My lord, the birth was difficult, and the lady was not strong-" The woman broke off in a half-sob.

Without pausing for breath Denethor barged past her and ran down the long corridor, his robes spreading out behind him like wings. He charged along, the blood pounding in his temples.

_No, no, please no! Please! Don't let her be taken away! Not my Finduilas! Please! _

His footsteps pounded in his ears; lamps flickered with shadows as they dashed past them. The whole world had turned into an endless passage of tapping footsteps, and flickering light.

And then he came to a halt, in front of the doors at the end of the passage. Two of the midwives were standing outside of the doors, which were closed; one, the younger, was wiping her eyes, the elder was wiping her bloody hands on a cloth, and grimly shaking her head. They both started at his approach, and gasped, and bobbed their curtsies.

"My wife!" he barked, cutting in on their obsequies. "The lady Findulias! What has happened?"

They slowly looked at each at each other, and then parted to allow him access, bowing their heads in sorrow, and not daring to meet his eyes.

Denethor pushed open the doors, and bounded into the room.

The room was even more dimly lit than the passage way. The two biggest lamps were set near the bed, casting their flickering shadows over its occupant. Finduilas lay in the bed, propped up on pillows, wan and pale; her eyes closed. Two more midwives were bundling up bloodstained bed clothes; a third was bathing something in a bowl of water.

He walked slowly forward; no one stopped him. For him time had slowed to a crawl. All that he saw in the world was his wife lying so still in bed, the lively animated face that he cherished so much now stilled; the rosy lips which he had kissed so many times now pale and waxy; her long, raven locks, which Boromir had inherited, now dank and darker still with cold sweat. Her beautiful grey eyes, which Boromir and Faramir both possessed, were now closed forever.

"My lord." A voice came from his left. He turned to see the midwife who had been washing something; she had now wrapped it in white cloth, and was holding it out to him. "The lady lived long enough to see the child, my lord."

He nodded, as if in a dream, and held out his hands for the little bundle. Taking it in his arms, he peered down at what lay within the folds of cloth. Swaddled in whiteness, he could see the face of a tiny baby, with its eyes tight shut, and wisps of black hair trailing over its brow. Its face was flushed, and it looked sound asleep. He looked up at the midwife, but did not know how to ask.

"A daughter, my lord."

"A daughter." The words sounded so strange in his own mouth and ears, as he uttered them. As he spoke he forgot all about Finduilas, lying so cold and dead, and felt nothing but astonishment, and dismay.

This blood, this suffering, this terrible end, for a daughter? A mere little scrap of a girl?

As if she had heard his thoughts, the baby's eyes suddenly snapped open, to look up at him. Denethor started and almost dropped her, for he saw now that her eyes were not the characteristic grey that both Boromir and Faramir retained, but deep dark orbs; so dark that he could hardly distinguish the pupils, until he looked long and hard. The infant gazed up at him, without making a sound, and the Lord of Gondor suddenly wished, if only for a the merest heart-beat span, that he _had_ dropped her.

With a great effort, he raised his eyes from her face, to look at the midwife. The woman softly repeated, "She lived long enough to see her, my lord. And -" She hesitated, and then continued, with some determination. "She told me the name she had chosen for the child, should she bear a daughter."

"What was it?"

The midwife paused again. She licked her lips and then said, with some hesitance creeping into her voice, "Nienor, my lord."

_Nienor?_

Denethor felt as if his heart had been touched by a cold finger of ice. He looked again to the body of his wife, to see her face peaceful, full of rest.

Yet why should she name her child 'Mourning'? How could she have been so full of despair, that she should wish to give her daughter such a name of sorrow?

Yet he remembered her wistful silences, and her times of depression. He remembered times when she seemed to look beyond him, to another place, and her slow waning, even before her pregnancy. She had not been happy living in a city – perhaps even miserable. After Faramir had been born, it was as if a shadow had passed over her, which could not be lifted.

Perhaps all her misery had welled up, culminating in this terrible release from her sorrows.

"Oh, my love," he murmured, tears welling in his eyes, as he gazed upon the beloved face of his wife, who he loved so much in life, but now felt he hardly knew.

A small gurgle came from his arms, and he looked down, to see that his daughter's – the girl's - eyes were open again, and she was even now squirming and whimpering for the breast that would never feed her.

He swiftly handed her back to the midwife, saying with some effort, "A wet-nurse must be organised for her. Take her to her cradle." As the midwife nodded, and began to turn away, he went on, "And let it be known that I now have a daughter." He added, more softly, "Nienor."

The midwife bowed her head, with a troubled expression on her face, and swept out of the doors, bearing the child away from the room of death.

He turned to look once more at Finduilas; her face so calm and serene, she could almost have been mistaken to simply be asleep, were it not for the fact that she no longer drew breath.

He took a deep breath himself, and realised to his shock that tears now were trickling down his cheeks. He frantically rubbed them away, determined that none would see the Steward of Gondor weep. Despite that, he had never felt more like weeping in his entire life. Finduilas was dead, gone from existence, leaving only an image or memory of loveliness; leaving him to try to comfort his sons, probably in vain, and also leaving him with a daughter…or a curse.

Denethor was not sure yet sure which it was.

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"_Nienor."_

"_My lady? What-"_

"_Her name is Nienor."_

"_My lady, do you really think-"_

"_If anyone has a right to name her, it is I! She is Nienor. My Nienor. Child of my Sorrow. Pray that you do not share my fate, my daughter. I pray that you do not."_

_That is my first memory.

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**Review, please!**


	3. Book One: Daughter of Sorrow

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of The Lord of the Rings in in fiction,except for my character Nienor.**

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Book One

**Daughter of Sorrow**

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Chapter One

"We wish to see our sister," Boromir said, rather more calmly than he felt at present, his arms folded across his black clad chest. He stared coolly at the serving-woman, the wet-nurse, who had hurried up just as they had been about to enter and was now standing in front of the closed door. She blinked nervously, like a silly bird caught in a trap, and stared back at him and Faramir, evidently completely lost for something to say. He knew that would not last for long, so he was being quick to establish his authority, even though he did not feel it very greatly.

The woman gulped, then began, "The Lord Denethor has expressly-"

"Our father has locked himself in his study, and will answer to no one," he cut in swiftly. "He has kept us away from her long enough. We," and at this he gestured with one hand to where he knew Faramir was peering out from behind his legs, judging by the anxious plucking of fingers at his hose, "wish to see our sister."

At least, Faramir did, and Faramir would not be able to get into the new nursery at all without his help, so he had taken him to see the baby. Just once. He owed it to Mother to see the infant, just once. After that, they could leave her in the hands of her nurses, and he need never look at her again. "Must I order you to stand aside?"

The woman shifted again. "My lord, she has just fallen asleep. I would not have her wakened."

"Better and better. We will not disturb her. We will only stay for a moment of two. Now, let us in."

He feared that she would challenge his authority as merely being the son of the Lord of the Citadel, not the Lord himself, and already he was bracing himself for her bristling and dismissal.

But, to his amazement, the woman actually bowed her head, and stood aside with barely a murmur. Plucking up their courage, the two boys walked boldly forward, pushed open the door and entered the dimmed room; even if Boromir had to take Faramir's hand and lead him through the doorway into the shadowy space.

There was very little light in the room, since gauzy drapes had been drawn across the windows, as if echoing the mourning drapes that still fluttered black across the city, though it was three days since the funeral had finished. But Boromir could make out the shape of the cradle that their father had ordered brought out and prepared for a new occupant, when it was revealed that his wife, Mother, was expecting again. The last time he had seen it, it had been decked with sprigs of greenery in celebration of Faramir's birth, when he had been ushered in by their father to see his new brother for the first time. But now it was plain and unadorned, not even bearing one strand of wool, the customary mark of the birth of a female child. In the dim light of the bare room, out of place in a chamber that was not Mother's, the cradle looked especially bleak and bare.

The childishness that still lurked within him, even after the hammer blow, the sword thrust to the heart, of Mother's death, whispered that perhaps such neglect of decoration meant that the baby was dead as well, that a little corpse lay within, to be placed at the side of the one from whom it had unjustly taken life.

But if such was the case a black winding cloth would have been laid over the cradle, instead of leaving it untouched. So he forced down his immaturity and made his way towards the wooden structure, tugging Faramir gently along behind him. Reaching the side of the cradle, he looked down into it.

The first thing that struck him about her was the darkness of the great tufts of her hair against her skin. He remembered once seeing a raven that one of the Rangers shot down, when out on a two day hunting trip in Ithilien with his uncle. One could easily boast, like the fair maidens in ancients songs, that the babe's hair was as black as the feather's of that raven's wing. He could not resist leaning down over the carved wooden side to touch the infant's tresses. It was soft as well, like strands of black silk; and the skin he could easily feel beneath the hair was soft as down. As he ran his fingers carefully across her scalp, he felt her squirm in her sleep against his touch, and her tiny rose-bud mouth opened and yawned and shut, as if suckling in slumber.

Faramir was now tugging on his tunic, whimpering slightly, his voice not quite breaking into words, but nevertheless pleading to be allowed to see. With some reluctance he withdrew his hand, and instead hoisted his brother up so that he could see into the cradle as well. Faramir clung onto the edge with his little fists in his excitement, and stared down at the baby girl.

"So small," the little boy said softly, before leaning forward and nearly overbalancing in an attempt to touch the minute hand that was free of the thin coverlet and that opened and closed in sleep.

Preventing his brother from falling into the crib as best he could, Boromir looked at the wet-nurse, who stood silently a little way away, watching them through narrowed eyes, as if weighing up how much to tell their father when he came out of his grief enough to punish them. She had a thin-lipped, mean little mouth, and her hands were long fingered and bony. He shuddered at the thought of those fingers touching the baby – his sister. He stare coolly at her.

"Why is the cradle not adorned? It should be decked with silken ribbons." His voice was sharper than he had anticipated, but truly he did not care now. "And the windows should not be veiled. And where are your companions? Surely you are not the only one who attends her?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "It is my task to nourish her, my lord. My companions mourn still the Lady Finduilas."

He wondered how she dared speak Mother's name to him so blandly, so calmly. "And the cradle? And the windows?"

"It was the Lord Denethor's order, Lord Boromir."

"Somehow I am not surprised. But never mind." He set Faramir down on the floor again, to a stifled moan from his young brother, who had been drilled beforehand on the fact that, should they be allowed entry to the nursery, there were to be no loud noises, lest the baby wake. But now he would have her sleep in peace for another reason. "Come over here. Show me how I should hold her."

He watched shrewdly as she, with some apparent reluctance, came forward and carefully lifted the still sleeping baby from the cradle, arranging her arms so that his sister was supported fully. She looked even smaller when cradled in the embrace of another, in the embrace of a stranger. The woman, having positioned her, looked up at him, with just a shade of defiance in her eyes, as if she were only doing this under duress. That settled it. He made his decision.

But then again, his decision had been made ever since he had first touched his sister's forehead, and felt the warmth of her skin.

"Very good. Give her to me," he said brusquely, holding out his arms for her. He welcomed the warmth of the baby's tiny body flowing into his arms as the woman handed her over, probably glad to be rid of her precious, precious weight. He took a moment or two to adjust her small body into a better position. Her head lolled back against the crook of his arm, and her closed eyes looked up to him; and he knew that he had to protect this little creature, his sister, from a citadel, a whole world, that would not understand her, perhaps scorn her, reject her.

And then he felt a deep shame that, until now, he had been part of that world. But no longer.

"Come, Faramir," he said quietly, turning to walk to the door.

Even as Faramir followed, his eyes wide, the wet-nurse called out nervously behind him. "My Lord Boromir! She is sleeping; she should not be moved-"

He longed to shout at her, call her scores of filthy names he had picked up from the guards, for being such a liar, so false. But he knew that he was truly no better than her, and acting in such a way would make him even worse. So he simply looked back over his shoulder, and spat as loudly as he dared, "Why should you care, _Madam?_"

She glared at him. "It is my duty to care for her, my lord. It was what I was called to the citadel for."

"Then you cannot have done your duty very well, since you left her alone. Take care, lest I persuade my father to discharge you, and find someone who is more willing to perform the task. Think on that."

He did not wait for her answer, but walked boldly out into the corridor, Faramir running behind him. He did not look back for his brother, he did not look down at his sister in his arms; he looked only at the passage ahead of him. He did not stop walking until he reached the closed doors that led into his father's study.

To his surprise, Faramir was right beside him, if rather out of breath. He must have made his brother run all the way. He smiled apologetically down at him.

"Sorry, Fari."

"Do not worry, Boromir." Faramir, still panting, looked up at the doors. "Why are we here? Father will not see anybody."

"He _will_ see us." He lifted his foot, and rapped it against the door, once, twice, three times; the sound echoed throughout the passage. He glanced down at the baby, half feared that she would wake, but no, she still slept peacefully in his arms, her lips parted in the thinnest gap.

"Father?" he called softly, not expecting to receive a reply. There was none.

He tried again, a little louder. "Father, let us in."

Faramir tugged on his tunic again, and shook his head; but he ignored the boy. He was angry again, and angry this time at their father. Such a rage would not fare well, but he could not help his fury.

"Father, both your sons stand out here, and I hold your daughter in my arms. We wish to see you. Let us in."

There was no answer from within. He glared at the door. He kicked it hard, ignoring the pain that it brought, and the jolt through his body awoke the infant in his arms at last. At once she began to wail, her shrill voice cutting through the air. Her little arms flailed in the air, and her legs kicked out, struggling at the coverlet that still lay over her.

"Father!" he shouted over her squalls. "We are your children, Father, all three of us. In fact, we are so much your children that it might be the worse for us. You can sit in there until you go mad with her screams and my blows at the doors, but be assured that we will stand out here until you get up and open them and let us in!"

He kicked the door again as he spoke, taking no heed the pain that started again in his toes. The baby was really yelling now. He was raising his leg again when the door abruptly was thrust open.

The Lord Denethor stood in the doorway. He was dishevelled; the robes he wore looked to be the same as those he had worn to his wife's funeral, three days ago. The unshaven stubble and the shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes made him seem all the more threatening as he glared down at the three of them. Even Boromir, in his own anger, felt his heart quail at the sight. The infant in his arms seemed to share his sudden timidity; her wail died away and left the air.

The Steward of Gondor took the opportunity to snarl, "I should-"

But whatever he should do was forever lost in the baby's fresh scream, since she had only paused to draw breath. Against his will, it appeared, Denethor's sight was drawn to the kicking, bawling baby. His lips pressed together in distaste.

"Take her _away!_ I do not wish to see her!" he yelled over her uproar.

"I will not!" Boromir roared back. Making sure he had a firm grip on her, her held his sister out to his father. "Take her, father. Take your daughter."

Denethor took a step backwards, but the expression on his face was now more akin to panic than to rage. "Boromir, my son, take her away. Can you not see that I do not want this?"

"I can see that, father. And I say I will not take our sister away until you call her that." Boromir took a step forward. It was hard to keep a hold on her, she was screaming and wriggling so. "Take her, father!"

The Steward of Gondor stood motionless. Then, slowly, his arms came forward. Practised hands slid under the baby's neck and body, and lifted her weight from Boromir's grasp. Boromir watched half in anticipation, half in fear, as their father drew the baby close to his sable-clad chest, his red rimmed eyes looking down in the infant's face, red with rage, creased with bawling. One arm cradled the baby's body, holding and supporting; one withering hand went slowly to the little girl's black temple, where his own matted locks fell down to meet it.

"Do not cry, Nienor," the Steward of Gondor said softly. "Do not cry, my daughter."

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I am held in darkness. I see a light shape, high above me, in the darkness. I do not know how I name it, but name it I do._

_I name it Father._

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If you think Boromir is not particularly nice at the start of the chapter, have a little heart! The boy's lost his mother because of his sister; I hardly think he's likely to be well disposed towards her at first.**

And yes, the italics is Nienor speaking. Or rather thinking.Old readers might be a bit disappointed that she isn't saying much at the moment, but she's only about a week old - be impressed that she's actually forming understandable sentences right now!

**I obtained the idea of the new baby's cradle being decorated – or not decorated, in this case – from Greek history. In Ancient Greece, when a boy was born in a household, they would hang olive garlands over the front door if it was a boy, or woollen ones if it was a girl.**

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Review, please!**


	4. 2995 I

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I only own my own character, and this AU.**

**Wow. Yes. Well. I took a long time over this, didn't I? Ah well, just enjoy it.**

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_**2995**_

The sight of the White City was welcome indeed to Imrahil's attendants, judging by the sounds of satisfaction that came from around and behind him as they crested the hill and the magnificent city came into sight. After many days of hard riding from Belfalas they could now look forward to rest, recovery and refreshment, provided by his kinsman.

Truly, none seemed to be more appreciative of the sight than his precious Lothíriel, who sat before him on the pillion saddle, and looked up with small wonder-filled eyes at the white walls, the glimmering tower rising up high above the plains, the waving banners moving in the strong morning breeze. He hugged his five year old daughter closer to him with one arm, and expertly halted his steed with the other.

"The White City is in sight. We shall gallop for the last mile," he announced to his entourage. There were murmurs of awe even as the men hastened to prepare their mounts for what had been ordered.

"The White City!"

"Minas Tirith, the city of kings!"

"Father?" came a small voice from before him, and he turned his face and smiled down at his daughter's beloved, beautiful little face. "Father, does a king really live in the White City?"

His mood soured at once, as he thought of his kinsman, seated on his dark chair in the echoing hall at the height of the citadel.

"No, my love. Your uncle, Denethor, is the Steward of Gondor; but he is not a king."

"Not even a prince, like you?" his bright little Lothíriel asked, in the enchanting way that always won an answer from him.

"Not even a prince, darling. But we shall see something better than kings. We shall see your cousins!"

"My cousins!" It was what had kept his young daughter going through the long, arduous journey; the thought of meeting the bold, courageous boys she had heard so much of; and little did she know that her father secretly shared her enthusiasm to see the third and final child of the Steward.

The gallop gave them no chance to speak, and allowed Imrahil some time to think. He had not seen his nephews since that last hunting trip he had taken Boromir on, nearly seven years past now, when his sister had been heavy with child. After her passing there had been no more requests for the Steward's sons to be taken to Ithilien or to Belfalas – with a fear born of loss, Denethor had uncharacteristically kept his children cloistered inside the citadel, away from the rest of the city. Few had had seen Boromir and Faramir since the day of Finduilas's death, let alone even caught sight of the daughter herself at all. This was the first time that Denethor had even requested the presence of his wife's brother since her untimely loss.

Imrahil was determined that this would change.

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"**Uncle!"**

It should not have surprised Imrahil by just how much his nephews had grown, considering how many years it had been since they had last met, but he could not contain his astonishment at how _tall _they both now were. Boromir now reached his shoulder, obviously nearing his full height, and Faramir, though only still twelve years of age, was swiftly gaining pace with his brother. Consequently when they charged him together, it was all that he could do to hold his ground and throw his arms around the both of them.

"My nephews!" he managed to get out. "And how have you been, in the years I have been away?"

But truthfully he did not hear what they said, he was so caught up in their dear, long absent faces, intent on setting them in his memory if he was dispatched as swiftly as he had been called. Both had inherited the dark locks of his sweet, sad sister, but there the resemblance in Boromir ended; the Steward's eldest son would grow to inherit not only the Stewardship but his father's noble features as well, in the fullness of time. Faramir…Faramir made one's breath catch in the chest, so like to his mother did he look, sharing the same shape of face, the same frame of nose, and especially the same eyes. Boromir's eyes, once sharing that self same grey, had turned bluer over the years, growing more to resemble Denethor's own father Ecthelion; but Faramir's, rather than fading, had intensified. As Faramir looked up from where his arms hugged Imrahil about the waist, it was as if some near perfect image of his sister was meeting his gaze, instead of her son.

But there was one person who had failed to greet him – someone he had been particularly anxious for both himself and his daughter, still to be presented and waiting timidly with her attendants, to meet…

He looked over Boromir's dark head, to where Denethor stood by the dais, having actually paid his wife's brother the honour of rising and clasping his hand; and only the pressure the Steward inflicted while doing so had betrayed how truly glad he was to see Imrahil. "Kinsman? Where is my niece? Where is the Lady Nienor?"

The light that had seeped ever so slightly into Denethor's expression at the entrance of Imrahil and his entourage was gone at once, to be replaced with darkness that confused the prince. "She was summoned. Whether she will show herself or not is another matter entirely."

Whether she would show herself or not? Surely a dutiful daughter would obey her father! Imrahil looked to Boromir and Faramir, only to have the boys refuse to meet his gaze, and draw back from his embrace as if he suddenly burnt them; instead looking to a side door that was even now opening to admit more members of the welcoming party.

A young woman, dressed finely though plainly and surely no older than Boromir, led the crowd of ladies, and holding her hand was-

Imrahil looked into a pair of frighteningly stoic dark eyes, set in his sister's face. His sister's face as a child of six.

If Faramir was a near perfect image of his mother, then Nienor was her to life.

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"I can scarcely believe it," he said again, knowing as he spoke how irritating his repetitive fashion must be to his companion, whose patience with his relations as opposed to his advisors was not exactly boundless.

"Then quickly curb your disbelief, kinsman," Denethor said shortly, resting his back against a stone pillar. "For it is nothing but the truth. You have heard her speak; surely you should know from the blood that runs in her that she perfectly capable of such tasks as studying and translating set texts."

"But for one so young!"

"And what of it? Both my sons were well adept with pen and ink before they were eight. Why should she be any different?"

"Lothíriel is much her age, and she hardly knows her letters." _And is happier not knowing, _he added privately. It was little wonder that Nienor, when introduced, received his greeting as gravely and blandly as a woman of forty, rather than the child that she was.

Denethor glanced at where the shapes of the little princess and his own daughter sat close together at the far end of the colonnaded space, Nienor's ladies seated a little way off. "Your daughter will have little or no need of wit to recommend her when she is grown; her beauty will be worth a thousand words." It was difficult to fathom whether he meant his own words sincerely or snidely.

"I thank you," he returned mildly, choosing to be rational and accept the possible compliment.

"Of course," Denethor went on, shifting his weight slightly, "It shall not progress much further than this. She will soon learn embroidery and weaving. I am already considering alliances."

"Alliances?" It took Imrahil an instant to realise what his kinsman meant, but he was taken aback when he did. "By the Valar, Denethor, she is hardly six! Already you plan to marry her off?"

"Six more years and she is practically a woman, kinsman," the Steward retorted, in a manner that made the prince baulk at his words, "and will be worthy of a fine husband. Surely you will make such plans for your own daughter?"

"Perhaps," Imrahil admitted, if begrudgingly. "But I will certainly wait until she _is_ a woman before doing so. My children will have the chance to be children before they are grown, _Denethor._"

The Steward would have replied, but for a distant giggle from Lothíriel that caught the attention of the two men. Denethor looked around at the prince, and with a slight inclination of his head invited him to step forward, to see what caused the girl's mirth.

As they approached unseen by their children, Imrahil made out his daughter's face, filled with laughter, seated opposite her cousin on the floor.

"You say such strange things, cousin Nienor! You are so funny!"

"I do not try to be." Imrahil baulked at that voice as well; to all extents and purposes the same as that of the adolescent Finduilas, save for the lack of Finduilas's deep joy, or any joy at all. Rarely had he heard a voice so calm, so quiet, so neutral.

"Well, no matter!" Lothíriel smiled her most lovely smile, and he felt his heart lift at the sight of her sweetness and purity. "Father's men said that this is a city of kings! Do you know if any kings live here?"

"If they do, they have done well in hiding themselves thus far."

"Father said that your father rules Gondor, but he is not even a prince! How can that be?"

"Because he safe-guards the throne. He holds the throne for the king, when the king shall return. Has my uncle never taught you this?"

"No." Lothíriel blue eyes were wide as she gazed at the placid girl sitting in front of her. "Would you not rather be a princess, though? Then we could be princesses together, in Belfalas, by the sea!"

For the first time since Imrahil had met his niece, he saw her face relax a little, as curiosity flowered into being – for a young girl brought up solely in Gondor, surely how could she help but be curious about the sea, which she must have heard of but never seen? But then the emotion was lost, as she pressed her lips together and looked sharply away from her cousin. "It is better by far to be the daughter of the Steward of Gondor, than the princess of Southern Middle-Earth itself."

Imrahil could see an uncharacteristic smile on Denthor's face beside him which was swiftly smothered, even as he watched his daughter colour up, taking offence as she so readily did, a frown spoiling the blooming little beauty. "Oh, indeed! Well, you may give yourself such fine airs, _my lady, _but you are still only that – a lady! You will never be anything else! While I am a princess; and when I marry I shall be a queen! When I marry, I shall do better than you by far!"

There was a long pause between her ringing words, and her cousin's reply.

"I care not," Nienor replied simply. "You may marry the king of Gondor himself if he returns, if you like. I care not."

"Why not?" Lothíriel demanded irritably, pouting and folding her arms.

"I will never marry." For the first time Nienor smiled, her eyes closed as if pleased at the prospect, and now she truly looked like Finduilas, caught in a rare moment of peace. "You may marry if that is your wish, cousin; you may let yourself be tied to a husband and spend your life bearing children. I never will. I will remain a maiden for all of my life."

Imrahil found a smile creeping onto his face as he watched his brave, bold little niece nod defiantly to herself. Lothíriel, however, did not look nearly as certain as her cousin. "Your father will not share your wish."

Nienor's tranquil expression faded, to be replaced with a frown. "Do you have a knife?" she asked abruptly. Lothíriel recoiled.

"_No!_ Why would I have a knife?"

"I would make a blood oath, that I will never wed. I need something sharp that will pierce my skin. You may watch, if you like."

Lothíriel stared at her, and then stood up. "You are strange, Nienor," she said simply. And she walked back to where the ladies sat, without looking back at her cousin. Nienor was left sitting by herself, staring at her hands.

Imrahil was aware of his kinsman's displeasure. As quietly as he could, he whispered, "Your plans are cast awry, it would seem, Denethor."

Denethor said nothing at first, but then his lips twisted once more into a smile; and a smile as unlike to his previous as could be. It was more than a little cold-blooded. "It makes no difference, kinsman. Whether she is willing or no, she _will _wed, when I deem the time is right."

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_Felia hit me again today. I am not even certain what I did wrong this time. It was not truly a proper blow, just a cuff round the back of the head, but it still hurt a good deal. I think she finds it funny that she can strike the daughter of the Steward and get away with it. Only if she hits me with an open hand, though, she does not dare to use closed fists that might leave a mark. Yet._

_I hate Felia. She is vile and cruel to me, and treats me harshly when nobody is there to help me. Even my other ladies, who are cold and unfair, are not as bad as she is; that is why she only hits me when we are alone together, before she takes her leave as well. But her true cruelty is in her words. _

"_The Lady Finduilas died because of you," she says. "Her death is your fault. You are bad luck." On and on she goes, slipping her voice into my ears like poison, letting it flow into my blood and freeze my heart. All of the other ladies say such things as well, and some of them refuse to touch me or attend me, because they do not wish to be tainted by my unluckiness. I find it hard to care. They all have bony fingers, and mean little mouths, just as Boromir said my wet nurse did. I dread to think what I suckled from her._

_I really do hate Felia. I do not show her my tears, but when she's gone, when they're all gone and there is nothing but darkness in my chambers, I curl into myself in my bed and I let myself cry, cry my unlucky tears. To cry in front of _her_ would be a weakness._

_But sometimes, when she stands over me and smiles down at me, and I look back up at her, I see in her eyes that she is more unhappy in some ways than I am. And that unhappiness is only lifted when Boromir, my brother, comes to see me. Then her face lights up. She smiles properly, and when he smiles at her she shines like the sun._

_She loves him, and I know he loves her. That is why I say nothing. There is some small good in her, though I know she never shows it to me, and all of it is on fire for Boromir._

_Once, when I had answered back and she struck me, afterwards she stood staring at me, shaking her head and whispering, "Why can he not marry me? Why can't he?"_

_I had only one answer, and I doubted that she would care to hear it. Father._

_She is unhappy, and that unhappiness makes her all the crueler to me. It is caused by marriage, or least her wish for it. _

_I will never marry._

_I have sworn it to myself, and I would have sworn it in blood in front of Lothíriel, had she not taken fright and taken off. But no matter. I need no blood shed to make a powerful oath. By all my unlucky blood, by I that caused my mother's death, by the grave of my mother that let marriage destroy her long before I was born, I have sworn that I will never marry, never let myself be destroyed, never pass my unluckiness on to children that I do not want in any case._

_I am Nienor. A daughter of sorrow. An unlucky child, born of an unlucky mother. I am bad luck. I know this._

_And I know that I will be _glorious.

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**And here we have the entrance of the little brain-box – and she's only six! If you think she's showing various Mary-Sue tendencies, let me at once comfort you by saying that many children of kings in Europe began their education early, and they were reading the Bible and Greek philosophers from the start! The 'grave as a woman of forty' phrase was actually used to describe Queen Elizabeth I herself, when _she _was six. Don't go thinking Nienor is an anomaly; both Boromir and Faramir are relative brain boxes as well, and it's kind of in the genes for her, since they all have the blood of Numenor.**

**Little Lothíriel made a good prediction; she does do well for herself – after the War of the Ring, she marries Éomer and becomes Queen of Rohan. All right, so in my version she's about a year or so older than him(she was born in early 2990, while Eomer according to Tolkein was born in 2991). So what? Lots of men in Middle Earth seemed to have a thing for older women, and Imrahil's family has Elven blood in them, so Lothíriel won't be getting any wrinkles any time soon. I'm also not going over board with how beautiful she is, even when she still basically a toddler; her beauty was said to rival Arwen's **


	5. 2995 II

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of this, except for my original messed up characters, bless.**

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Faramir was concerned for his brother, more concerned than he cared to admit; and he had already admitted quite a deal to Boromir in the weeks since he had begun to court Nienor's chief waiting woman, Lady Felia. The very secrecy of their encounters stuck in his mouth, tainting the affair irreparably; for if it was a good thing then why should it be kept a secret? Why should they find the need to keep it from their father? But of course, those questions were easily answered.

"_Father will not be pleased when he finds out you have been dallying with her, you know," _he had said, when Boromir had arrived late for their sparring match, more than slightly disheveled from something more than a sprint to make their match on time.

"_I have _not_ dallied with her," _his brother replied, offended. _"You make it sound as if I would use her and then throw her away. I would _never_ do that."_

"_I know you would not, brother." _That was what he most feared.

He did not trust the Lady Felia. Even before he had first happened upon Boromir and she hidden in some obscure corner and locked in a tight embrace, his brother's lips and tongue exploring her wide, lovely mouth, while she arched her body and pressed so close, pawed so desperately at his chest and back, he had known that there was some deep, terrible wound that ran through her. He had heard whispers through the court that her father, long dead now - may he find whatever peace lay for the race of Men beyond death - had grown sinfully lonely since his wife had entered her confinement before the birth of her second child, and had turned to his young daughter in a way that no father should. What would such an experience have done to Felia, if it was true? Surely it had fractured her, surely soon she would break and crumble; and he would not let her drag his beloved brother down with her.

But he had found that he could not bring himself to break apart the lovers, if that was what they truly were. Though he hated to admit it, as much as Felia needed Boromir, and clung to him like a drowning woman when she went into his arms, Boromir needed his consolation in her sweet curves, her soft caresses, her warm arms. The elder of Denethor's sons mourned the loss of their mother's embrace more than Faramir, who had but few dear memories of the woman who gave him life. Starved of female contact, it was only natural that Boromir would seek to console himself in this, the first of his liaisons that Faramir knew of. Though he knew it could not last, that Denethor would soon find out and that both his brother and the damaged woman he favored would pay for their joy, the twelve year old boy was not yet man enough to end their delight now, before the pain would follow.

But it was becoming harder and harder to ignore. How would their father react, when he discovered what Boromir had promised his lover, only days ago?

"_You promised her _marriage? _Brother, have you lost your sense? Or did wine addle your wits? What do you think Father will do when he finds out?"_

"_My senses are clear. I love Felia. And…she loves me."_

"_Is it love you feel, or simply lust? In any case, do you think that Father will care? When he finds out, he will disgrace you, favored first son or not, and he will banish her to be a Maiden of Nienna. Is that what you wish, Boromir? Because if you continue to act in this way, it is what will happen."_

Boromir had smiled good-naturedly, and ruffled his hair in the way that he both despised and secretly cherished. _"You think too many gloomy thoughts, little brother."_ And, though such should not have been the case, they had said no more.

They walked now to Nienor's rooms, where Boromir would have a chance to meet his beloved, his secret betrothed, under the pretense of visiting his sister. The sheer selfishness of this action had struck Faramir even if it had not occurred to Boromir; but if it had struck Nienor as well, precocious child that she was, she had never shown it. That was something else that had worried Faramir about the affair between his brother and his sister's waiting woman; though Nienor obviously knew of it, she had never commented upon it. Whenever Boromir had smiled upon Felia, whenever Felia had blushed and given him her hand to kiss, when they had retreated together and the women had giggled together and made a faint flush rise to his own cheeks, she had never once raised her head from her work. Once, when he had taken her aside and asked her furtively what she had thought of this action on their brother's part, what she thought of Felia, she had replied simply, _"Our brother must please himself,"_ and would say no more.

When Faramir had whispered to her that Boromir had promised himself to her waiting-woman, what he remembered most was not what she had spoken – once again, _"Brother must please himself," _– but the minute tremor that had run through her at the news, not in her voice but in her still chubby limbs.

What sort of woman was this Felia, if his baby sister, even more gravely than was her wont, would refuse to speak of her? Would tremble, if only slightly, at the knowledge that she might wed their brother?

Why did Boromir love such a woman at all?

_

* * *

Does Boromir love Felia because she is beautiful, I wonder?_

_When I look at her, I see no beauty. I see a beautiful woman, of course, but I see no beauty. When I look at her exquisite hands, I see only the fingers that deal me harsh blows. When I see her long, chestnut locks, I see the head that she tosses when she mocks me. When I see her plump lips, I see the smile that scorns my whole life. _

_Boromir loves her. He has often said so. I heard him say once that he will marry her, though he was merely jesting. He was jesting. Of course he was jesting._

_He does not jest now._

_Felia is so beautiful, though. So kind, and so witty, and so very gentle, and so sweet, and so sweet to taste, though he has never said _that_, at least not where I can hear. She has so much beauty, and he is enthralled by it all._

_But I hate her too much to see her beauty. I can see only her evil. Perhaps it is unfair, but after the way she has treated me, can I be expected to do anything else?_

_I will _not_ let her get her claws into my brother._

_She is pacing the floor now, her fingers twisting. One of her nicer smiles is lighting her face. The other ladies look indulgently at her, for they know that she is in love. I look at her, and I know that I do not want her for a sister. I _won't_ have her for a sister._

"_He said he would come today, did he not?" she asks, suddenly._

"_Felia," some other laughs, "the two always come to see her on these days. He will be here."_

_I hate the way that they talk about me. As if I am not even there. I sit by myself, away from the grown women whom I do not know, and do not like, and who do not know nor like me in return. I am like an animal, a stupid, dumb animal in their eyes._

_Felia suddenly turns to look at me, snaps her fingers at me. "She should be reciting something!" she snaps with her voice. "They'll be here soon, she should be reciting something to show we take an interest in what she is studying!"_

_There is a titter from all of the women. They could care less about what I am studying, and both they and I know it. They are too busy wondering about who they will let between their legs to think about more important things. I stand without a word. It makes no difference. Boromir and Faramir know my worth, even they do not._

_What will I say? I think for only a moment, and then I begin. A child's task, but they need not know that._

"Learn now the lore of living creatures!

First name the four, the free peoples:

Eldest of all, the elf-children;

Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses;

Ent the earthborn, old as mountains…"

"_What are Ents?" I hear one woman whisper to another._

"_I do not know," comes the reply._

_They are idiots. All of them._

"Man the mortal, master of horses!" _I grind out._

"_And master in the bedchamber," someone else whispers, and they all giggle stupidly. I look fixedly at a spot on the wall. Someone spare this._

"Beaver the builder, buck the leaper,

Bear bee-hunter, boar the fighter;

Hound is hungry, hare is fearful;

Eagle in eyrie, ox in pasture,

Hart horn-crownéd; hawk is swiftest,

Swan the whitest, serpent coldest…"

"_Enough." Felia steps forward, stopping my recitation. She looks at me scathingly, her head on one side, strands of her hair spilling down attractively onto her shoulder. "How are rabbits wise?" she asks at length._

_I am ready for this. She has listened in on my lessons enough to know the questions I am asked concerning scriptures and proverbs. "Their bodies are weak but they make their burrows among rocks."_

"_How are ants wise?"_

"_They are weak, too, but each summer they lay in stores for the winter."_

"_And how are spiders wise?"_

"_Because they know how to use their hands, and some of them are courtiers and live in palaces." _

_Felia nods, apparently satisfied, but she never is. She will never be truly satisfied until she has gotten what she longs for; and I am determined that she shall never have it._

"_Who made you?" she asks now._

"_The Valar made me."_

"_Why did the Valar make you?"_

_Boromir and Faramir will be here soon. They will save me from this hatefulness. She always asks me this, and I have learnt through her blows that I must say, for her amusement, 'Because they made a mistake.' It amuses her to no end to have me sullenly drone that I have no true reason to live, often smarting from the pain of her pinch or slap. _

_I will not say it, though, not here. Not in front of all these women. I still have my pride._

_I look up at Felia, who is smiling. She thinks I will say the words, and humiliate myself. She is so, so wrong._

"_They made me so that I would live my life without fear."_

_The women murmur. Whatever they expected me to say, it was not that. Felia pouts; already I have spoiled her fun. That gives me pleasure, but I will pay for it, one way or the other._

"_For what other reason did they make you?" she asks, coolly now. She cannot hit me now, not here, not with all the ladies watching._

"_So that I would not have to end my days as a Maiden of Nienna." It is a spit in her face, and she knows it. But she cannot hit me. She cannot._

_Or perhaps she can. I see her teeth clenched and her nostrils flaring, even before she lifts her arm as quick as an adder strikes, and brings it down._

_I never shield myself from her blows. I am not weak, and I have never cowered from a beating, even when she would knock me over with her cruel strength. I stand there now, I do not step back from her raised arm, and I silently allow her to smack me hard across the face, so hard that my neck is twisted by the force of the blow and I am certain I can taste blood in my mouth. It hurts, but there have been worse blows that I will never show._

_There are murmurs of shock from all around. The ladies have never before seen her treat me like this, cloistered as such beatings have always been in my private chamber, and are alarmed or even aghast at her deed. I do not need to look at her to know that she can already tell that she has made a mistake, a grave mistake. I see all I need to know on Boromir and Faramir's faces where they stand aghast at the door to where my face was turned by the blow, unseen by the others, only just arrived; and they have seen all they need to know in turn. Boromir most of all._

_I tilt my head in acknowledgement to him. Finally, he sees. They both see._

_My ladies turn to see what I am looking at, and they gasp again, in real terror this time, as they quickly spring to their feet. They are privy to her striking of me and they did nothing to stop her; they know that this will do nothing for any of them in the eyes of the elder son of the Steward. And as for Felia, she might be covered in filth, the way they are so hurriedly backing away from her, seeking not to be stained. I stay where I am; I watch her turn around hurriedly as Boromir approaches her, Faramir close behind him. Seeing the way they glare at her, Boromir's face especially filled with hurt, I am almost sorry for what I have done._

_But I have done nothing. I never did anything._

"_Boro- my lord Boromir-" Felia tries to say._

"_Felia, I will hear no excuse of yours." As Faramir pushes her roughly aside to throw himself to his knees in front of me and anxiously examine my face, Boromir's voice makes me glad indeed I am not on the receiving end of his wrath. "How you _dare_ to strike the Lady Nienor and then try to plead to me, I cannot tell, and do not wish to know. Be sure that you will pay most dear for this deed of yours."_

_Only _this_ deed? The breath hisses out of my mouth in disappointment, so quiet it can hardly be heard, but Faramir does hear, and stops examining my cheek and mouth and instead looks right at me. It is impossible to avoid his gaze, or hide what I have kept hidden for so long. _

"_This is not the first time she has hit you, is it, sister?" he asks quietly._

_I make no answer, for my face hurts too much for me to speak. It would be unseemly to make accusations. But my silence speaks to him more than words ever could or shall. _

_The anger goes from Boromir's face as he turns to look at me as well, to be replaced with puzzlement, swiftly followed by understanding. My elder brother is slow sometimes, especially in emotional matters, but when he makes a guess he can think very quickly. His face is now as dark as thunder as he looks back at Felia._

"_For what you have done, _lady-_" he spits that word as if it is a foul taste he desires to be rid of, "you deserve to be flogged yourself. I will not have you in my sister's presence any longer, not when you are so ready to raise a hand to her for the least offence. Leave the Lady Nienor's service and her household, and do not come near her again, nor approach me." Felia is crying now, fat tears are running down her face. I can feel no pity for her. She is weak to weep so openly, where all can see. "I will do no more, as long as you obey me at once. Leave. _Now._"_

"_Boromir!" Felia cries, reaching out for him, her fingers grasping and desperate. Her future, her hope, is disappearing before her eyes, all because she let her emotions rule her once too often. "Boromir, you cannot do this! You cannot turn me away! You promised me! You _promised!_" Her fingers grasp his sleeve; he pulls away, though he looks close to weeping as well. I feared that this would happen; for all his anger, he still loves her. _

_But, as all we three have learned from the legends we translate, there is nothing worse than love betrayed. Faramir, now standing beside me, watches the display as coolly as I._

"_I did promise," Boromir says softly. "But that was when I was a fool, who could not see what sort of creature you really were, Felia. Did you really think that I would accept my sister's beatings without a murmur? Get you gone. Go and be a Maiden of Nienna, as Nienor recommended. And do not think of going to my father, or I will tell him that you abused his daughter, and then you and your family will be thrown out of the citadel itself." He turns and runs out of the room, desperate to get away from the one he still loves and now despises, who he can no longer bear to see._

_I am sorry, brother. I truly am. But you had to see. I had to let you see._

_Felia turns to glare at me, her fists clenched, her lovely face white with fury and shining with her useless tears. "I will make you pay for this," she hisses between the pearl-like teeth that Boromir so admired, and no doubt explored at closer quarters with his tongue. Faramir frowns and makes to speak, but I do not need him to do that for me. I have no fear of her. I never did, and I do not now. She can never hurt me again._

"_For what?" I say simply, bluntly, the heat and pain from my cheek still making it hard for me to speak. "I did nothing. I was just here, the way I always have been."_

**

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Sorry for taking so long! I have been really, really busy, organising my life, plus also planning out the plot for this afresh! Boromir is being rather mean, and uncharacteristically ungenerous, but I beg you to consider. After all, learning that your girlfriend beats your little sister can mess you up just a little.**

**Being a Maiden of Nienna, in my version of Middle-Earth and in Minas Tirith at this point, is basically the same as being a sort of nun. The Valar are not exactly worshipped as gods, but humans - in Gondor particularly - believe in paying service to the beings that created the world by behaving appropriately. For example, Maidens of Nienna are either spinsters or women who have simply chosen not to marry, and live simple, virtuous lives doing good deeds. They take care of widows, orphans and basically anyone who has been bereaved, providing them with the means to live and the hope they need to carry on. This means that few people are without support in Gondor, as the more well off citizens and the authorities provide the Maidens with supplies, and all but the most hardened people do not dare to harass them or their charges. Of course, such women do not always enter the profession willingly, but there's often little other choice for them. Some things are good in Gondor, some are bad.**

**Nienor is a little bit of a nasty piece of work, isn't she? Well, I don't think so, really. Again, it messes you up just a bit if someone hits you a lot. If this was something like Sin City or Kill Bill, I can just imagine Nienor slamming Felia's head in a door again and again and saying, "Listen you punk" (slam) "just because your childhood was poo incarnate" (slam) "that gives you no excuse whatsoever to muck up mine!" (Well actually she'd probably say it much more rudely if it _was _in Sin City or Kill Bill, but you get the idea.)**

**The words in Nienor's stream of consciousness that aren't in italics I got from The Two Towers. Just because Treebeard learnt the old lists doesn't mean they weren't passed down to this time period. The section about the lessons on animals I got from _The Seeing Stone, _by Kevin Crossley-Holland.**

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**Review for the half-Irish seamstress, please?**


	6. 2998 I

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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**_2998_**

Denethor looked out from the balcony; down onto his city. _My city, _he thought, as his eyes gazed upon the sunlight flashing upon the domes and towers and pinnacles of the different buildings.

_This is my city. And I will do all in my power to defend it. From anyone who seeks to take it from me._

_From us._

A sound distracted him. A sound of metal upon metal, and laughing. Tearing his gaze reluctantly away from the city, he looked down below him to the courtyard below. Two young men were practising their sword play; their swords rang upon each other, clinking and casting slight sparks.

As one of the boys parried, the sunlight danced upon his face, the light tracing the features of Boromir, first son of Denethor, and Denethor's heir, now in his twentieth year. Denethor could not help smiling as he gazed upon his eldest child, laughing and wiping away the sweat from his brow; strong, and handsome, and vibrant. He knew that in Boromir lay the future steward of Gondor. He had strength and great will, he would lead the people to glory once more after he was gone.

But his smile faded as he looked upon the other dueller. Faramir, now fifteen, leant upon his sword, his dark locks brushing his shoulders, seemingly exhausted by his labour. Denethor, despite himself, felt his lip curling slightly in disgust. It was shameful that a son of his should show such weakness, after only a light bout of duelling.

But then he saw that Faramir was only pausing to wipe the sweat from his own brow. In a moment the two brothers were at it again, their laughter carrying upon the wind, up to Denethor.

Denethor swept away from the balcony, back into the corridor. His feelings about his children undoubtedly made him uncomfortable. Boromir of course he loved very dearly, but Faramir was another matter altogether. He loved him too, of course, but his younger son made him uneasy, less inclined to show affection to. Maybe it was because he resembled his late wife so, a lasting tribute to her memory. Perhaps it was his eyes, so like his mother's. Sometimes when Faramir gazed at him, Denethor felt as if the eyes of his own wife were boring into him; into his very mind and soul. The experience was not pleasant.

And as for Nienor…

Denethor had to pause to grip the edge of one of the pillars; his fingers so tightly wrapped around the stone they turned white.

Denethor's youngest child disturbed him the most. She was just so strange, even quieter than Faramir had been since Finduilas's death, and so pale, so…unreadable. When Denethor looked into her dark eyes, seeking to know what she felt or thought, he could often not keep her gaze for long. Her eyes, so like his own, yet unlike his own, always stared him down. By now he often could not bear to meet them.

And her face! So like her mother's already, even though she was only nine; with his wife's pale skin and graceful nose, and her face framed by curtains of long, black hair, as dark as that of the former Lady of Gondor. In fact, it was obvious that Nienor would grow up to resemble her mother in every way.

Except for her eyes, so dark, and deep, fringed with many dark lashes, and full of mysteries that would never be revealed. Sometimes, in the rare occasions when Denethor looked directly into the eyes of his daughter, it was like to looking into two pools of midnight sky, barely lit by the moon or stars; other times like deep wells, filled with thought and memory, and deep secrets, too deep to ever be reached.

Still other times, especially, when there was little light to shine upon the girl's face, he felt as if he were looking into dark, endless pits, with no depth to be found.

Denethor shuddered, and shook himself slightly. He saw that, without realising it, he had walked into a small courtyard. The walls rising up above obscured most of the light from the sun, but one patch of sunlight shone in the far corner of the yard – upon a bench, where a small, dark haired figure was sitting, its head bent over something. Denethor knew at once who it was, with his own certainty, but just to be sure he paced a little closer towards the figure.

His guess was right. The Lady Nienor sat upon the bench, her green slipper clad feet not quite touching the ground, clad in a dark green velvet dress and with her black hair loose and flowing as was the custom for young girls in Gondor, whether rich or poor. She held a large red leather bound book in her lap; her hands supported it on either side, and she was bent over it, reading intently.

Denethor had always been secretly amazed, and even a little alarmed, by how fast and how much Nienor had learned so far, though truly with the blood of Numenor in her that should have come as no surprise; Boromir and Faramir had learnt as quickly in their turn. Probably it was simply that he was not used to the idea of a female studying, despite her enthusiasm that had mounted over the years. Already she was begging her brothers, particularly Faramir, who shared a self-same love of learning, to let her examine the ancients texts stored in the many libraries of the upper part of the city, particularly the libraries of the bastion, which housed some of the oldest documents still existing in Middle Earth.

This only raised his ire more. Deep down, despite his words to his kinsman three years before, he believed that a girl should not waste her time learning knowledge that was reserved for men. Nienor should be learning the tasks of womanhood, like weaving and sewing; at his command. The fact that she learnt none of these things willingly only strengthened Denethor's resolve that she should obey his word. In fact, he knew that at this moment Nienor should be practising her embroidery with her maid, rather than indulging her own fancy.

Fuelled with this anger at her disobedience, Denethor strode towards her.

She heard him, of course; she was wont to hear people approaching her long before they expected her to. She raised her head to see him coming towards her, but unusually she did not try to run away, or blurt out an excuse. She simply closed the book and sat waiting for him to reach her, her face illegible.

As he reached the bench, and glared down at her, his daughter looked up at him, unblinking, still and silent. Denethor was not unused to this; unless spoken to, Nienor usually said very little, if anything at all. She was waiting for him to speak.

"What are you doing here, my daughter?" he asked quietly. By some odd chance, the air that Nienor exuded never made him raise his voice, her quietness seemed to affect him always. "You know you should be in your embroidery lesson."

"I know, Father. But I was bored, so I chose to come out here instead."

"You should not forsake your lessons."

"But what if they are no use to me?"

"And you think reading will be?" Abruptly, he leant forward, and pulled the book out of Nienor's grasp. Turning it so that he could see the title, he gazed at it, and then turned his eyes back to her, turning his gaze into a glare. "A book of Elvish poetry?"

She still gazed up at him stolidly. "It interests me, Father."

"And where did you get this from?"

She could see that he would brook no argument, so for once she subsided. "From the library, Father."

"You are lying. I saw Faramir with this book only yesterday."

She never even blinked. "Faramir let me borrow it for today," she amended her lie smoothly.

"When he knew that you were meant to be in your lessons?"

She made no answer. Denethor sighed.

"You will go back to your embroidery with your maid; and you will not leave the lesson until you have completed all that you were meant to have sewn today. Faramir will be reprimanded for lending you the book. I will do nothing else, this time. But if I hear that you have missed your lessons again, or are reading or studying any texts while you should be learning your proper duties and tasks, I shall make sure that you will learn the meaning of obedience, towards both your teachers and your father." He half-turned to go. "Believe me, my daughter; the Steward of Gondor is not above issuing punishment to his own children – or his own daughter."

Yet again, Nienor did not reply, but simply continued to look up at him with her great dark eyes. As usual he could hardly bear to meet their unflinching stare; though this time he fancied that there was a certain amount of sullenness and resentment to be found therein.

He turned, saying sharply, "Come; one of the servants will take you back." He called out for a servant, and did not turn to face her again.

In only a few moments a maid came hurrying; he issued his orders to her. The maid curtsied, and taking the girl by the hand led her out of the courtyard.

Denethor, tucking the book under his arm, looked around in time to see Nienor look back at him, just before she disappeared through the far archway. The sunlight danced across her pale face –unnaturally pale, he thought sometimes – and shone in her dark eyes. It seemed that her eyes were filled with flames, and not just from the light, but from hidden fury.

Then the moment passed, Nienor turned her head and was gone. Denethor released his held breath and, unconsciously wiping the sweat off his brow, walked out of the archway opposite to the one his daughter had just exited.

_

* * *

Faramir will be very annoyed that I lost his book. Now he will have to beg Father for it back; and he will get a scolding for lending it to me in the first place._

_And Father sends me back to my embroidery lesson, being led along like a disobedient dog; my hand held in a stone like grip by yet another maid. I feel like struggling, but it is not worth the effort._

_Father thinks I am disobedient. He thinks I do not care about the traditions of my lineage. What traditions? That the men learn of the past, and of knowledge; and the women learn how to be wives, and servants? _

_That is not my path. And if he thinks that I will succumb to it, he knows even less about me than I deem. I wish to learn things, and not only the arts of women. I wish to learn of my race's past, and present, and future. I wish to be wise beyond all others, including the men who dominate and repress myself and the women around me. _

_All that desire cannot be quelled by spinning, or sewing._

_But in any case, even if I did think the embroidery lesson tedious, which I do, I would still have attended. But it was not my choice to avoid my lesson, my maid made that decision for me. When I entered the room at the usual time, for the usual lesson, she was already in the adjoining room; but there was someone else with her already – a man._

_I feel I was being tactful in leaving them to it. I could have walked right in and denounced her, but I only went away, to further my knowledge in other matters. I even locked the door for her, so that no one else would walk in on her. I felt that they would be at it for quite a while to come._

_Besides, even if her encounter with her 'friend' had been coming to an end, which it had not, judging by the sounds they were making, I still do not believe I would have been able to sit through an entire sewing lesson with her sitting next to me, smelling of a man. I do not think I would have been able to concentrate, with thinking about what they had been doing._

_I am not a stranger to the interaction between men and women, young though I am. None in the household talk about it directly, but outside the palace people are generally not so secretive. Many of the guards of the citadel have wives or, more often, sweethearts or mistresses; and they take great delight in recounting their conquests and exploits to each other. I know, for I have heard them do so. On the rare occasions when I stray out of the palace with my bevy of waiting women, and pass them, they always stop speaking, to bow their heads respectfully to me; but as soon as they think we are out of earshot they begin talking about their experiences of the night before again. Sometimes, they do not wait until I am out of earshot. As if I do not know what they are talking about!_

_Saying that, I should not know what they are talking about, though thanks to my maids such is not the case. I am nine years old, barely in the second age of childhood in the measure of my people; I should not know such things. I should still believe in happy myths, like the friendly spirit bringing children to good, kind couples; at the most Father giving Mama a baby. I should certainly not know exactly how the baby comes to be in the woman's stomach. _

_And I should most certainly not know that the act of it is pleasurable; extremely pleasurable in many cases. I have them to thank for that, again._

_I shudder to think of it, for whenever I do so I think about my own parents. My father and my mother. My father is quite old now, and must have been old even when he was wedded to my mother. I wonder how she could bear to have him touch her, with those withered hands of his, in that way, the way that must be for a child to be conceived._

_My mother…_

_I wonder if she loved my father at all. My ladies-in-waiting say she was devoted to him, and to her children, but a woman's heart is often full of secrets; and my mother would not obviously say that she was not happy in her marriage. People say I look like her, but I would not know if it is true, for I have never seen a picture of my mother. My father ordered that all pictures of her be hidden away._

_I miss her, if only a little, though I never knew her. Father never speaks about her, but Boromir and Faramir talk about her a great deal, when we are alone together. They tell me much about her, her smile, her laugh, how she used to tickle them and play games with them; how she used to their rooms and sing them to sleep at night. _

_I have never been sung to sleep by anyone since I was a child, and those times I cannot remember, and then it was done begrudgingly, I am certain of it. Just for once, I would like to be sung to sleep, by someone warm and loving. The maidservants that I have now are kind, or at least kinder than Felia and her followers that Boromir banished in his time of anger and pain, but they can never replace my mother._

_Felia would always say that Father believes that it is my fault that Mother died, since she died giving birth to me. _

_I think that is why he hates me. _

_Or at least dislikes me strongly. Whatever he feels about me, I know that he does not often bear to meet my eye. He thinks I do not notice, but I do. _

_And I know that he is wrong about my mother's death. She did not die because of me. I know that she was dying already, perhaps she was already dead. She was living a half-life before I ever was conceived. If I had not been born, she would have died anyway. I know this; I know she was suffering silently. One of her old maids told me that she had been growing increasingly sad and wan as time had gone on. I know what was wrong with her; she could not bear to be caged, could not endure to be shut up in this city, never let out. She was in a cage, a beautiful cage, with everything her heart could wish for – except the one thing lacking that truly made it a cage. Freedom. She wished to be free. I feel that by dying, she did set herself free. And for that I am happy._

_But I am not happy that she was miserable enough to want to die. How could she have bourn to have Father touch her in that way? She was so much younger than him…could she understand him? Did she know him at all? Or was she trapped, in a marriage to a man so much older than her, whom she did not understand at all? I think that their marriage, and my mother's life, had grown long cold by the time of my birth. _

_I know, because of the name she left to me. What mother calls her daughter 'mourning'? Yet she gave that name to me; and now it sits heavily on my shoulders indeed, forever reminding I and my father of all that I never knew, and all that he has lost. _

_Is it any wonder he hates me?_

_It is terrible to know that at the time of your conception, your mother was probably wishing she was somewhere else. Preferably somewhere where she was not hemmed in on all sides by buildings and marble, edifices and halls and columns, and preferably somewhere where there was more than enough fresh air._

_Now we are at my own room. The maid opens the door, and ushers me inside._

_My maid is there. I see that this time she is alone, her man friend is gone. She is dressed, but looks a little flushed, she evidently dressed hurriedly, for her dress is slightly rumpled. _

_The maid beside me does not notice, but I see a shadow retreating from the outside the window. Her 'friend' has only _just_ gone; just in time, it would seem. _

_To hide her embarrassment and panic, my maid has an air of annoyance. "Where have you been, my lady? I have been waiting ages for you! Oh, what are we going to do with you, you naughty child?" She adds to my captor, "Where was she?"_

"_The Lord Denethor found her in one of the courtyards."_

"_Ah." My maid turns her eyes back to me. I can see the embarrassment gone, to be replaced with fear. She knows full well that, had I chosen, I could have told my father all about her little meeting with her sweetheart, and he would have thrown her out of service to the palace within the same hour. My father has no patience for those who are slaves to their lust, and he is not about to have people cast a bad impression on me, young as I am; little though his love for me may be. For all she knows, my father could already be planning to banish her. _

_And what would she do then?_

_But I say nothing, I simply go to my place, and sit down quietly. As I do so, the maid who led me back went on, "And he says that if she misses any more classes, she is to be punished. I assume you understand what he means."_

"_Oh, yes." I can almost hear a sigh of relief in my maid's voice. The other woman does not notice – she does not seem to notice anything! - but I can tell that she knows now that her secret is safe; that I have not told my father. "Yes, I understand perfectly." She turns her attention back to me. "Now, my lady, if you are ready to start obeying your instructions, we will begin the class."_

_The door closes behind the second maid; and my maid visibly slumps, taking deep, calming breaths, with her fingers crumpling the material that she had only just picked up in her hands. After a few breaths, she seems to regain her nerve, and begins instructing me, without another word on what has happened. _

_All the while, I think that this whole incident could have been avoided, if she had only had the tact and foresight to meet her lover in her own time, and not when she was supposed to be teaching me to sew. In my own chambers, no less. I doubt she will be doing it again, though._

_Now she leans forward, over my own sewing, to correct some of my stitches. I see that the high collar of her dress, which fastens at the front of her throat, has not been pulled up fully; and I can see red marks on her neck; love bites. _

_Red marks, almost crying out of her passionate encounter with her lover._

_I shiver, and avert my sight, gazing stolidly at my sewing. _

_I know that when I am grown, I will _never_ let a man touch me in that way.

* * *

_

**Review for the half-Irish seamstress, please?**


	7. 2998 II

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings.**

* * *

Boromir dreaded the meeting that the Lord Denethor had called between father and son, dreaded it as he had dreaded little else. Never before had he been nervous when approaching his father's chambers, but now he felt as if he would swoon from the blood that beat a pulse in his forehead and hammered in his temples. The beginnings of sweat made his tunic stick to his back and his hands clammy as he balled them into fists, and his mouth was dry as old bread.

He was able to find some dry humour in his plight, as he took the last few steps towards the unwished, though not un-looked for, meeting. Boromir, the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor, who had killed his first orc when he was barely fifteen, who had led soldiers many times his age without mutiny and rebellion into the wilds, who was destined to become the Steward of Gondor in his turn when the present one finally passed away, shook like a young tree in the wind at the prospect of that which he now feared the most – what else his father planned for him, besides his eventual inheritance of the stewardship.

It had been two weeks and five days since his twentieth birthday had come and gone, and he had been waiting with sick anticipation for this summons on the part of his father ever since then. Though his official recognition as his father's heir had come three years earlier when he had turned seventeen – the youngest age that a man could officially become the Steward, without needing a steward of his own – this latest recognition of maturity was especially important. The rules may have been different in the lower tiers of the city, but in the hierarchy of the citadel a lord or lady had to be at least twenty years of age before they were allowed to marry.

This was what Boromir dreaded the most; _marriage._ The very thought of it was odious to him, it made him shiver, made him feel weak and sick. The thought of being bound in such a fashion was horrible in a way he could hardly fathom, and did not wish to in any case.

It had not always been this way. Once he had wanted marriage, he had craved it in order to be close to the one whom he loved, forever. And he _had_ loved Felia. He had loved her grace and her wit, her ready smile and her pealing laugh. He had loved how she had always had an answer ready for whatever he said, pouting prettily as she spoke. He had loved how she had understood his deep, secret loneliness, because she was so lonely herself, poor girl, and had comforted him when he had been grieved or downhearted or weary of the world. He had loved the smell and the warmth of her skin and hair, and the taste of her lips and her tongue against his own. He had loved the feel of her in his arms and how the winds could howl and the earth would break and they would still hold each other, because their love was undying and unending and it would last forever. He had loved her in so many ways he hardly knew how to count them all.

He had loved her so much that he had been blind to her faults. He had loved her so much that he had allowed her to do terrible, horrible things, things he would never have allowed if his eyes had been unclouded. He had loved her so much that her betrayal against him and the discovery of her true, base nature had been all the more sharp and painful, as a sword thrust to his chest, bringing cold agony in its wake. To know that the hands he had kissed in near worship had slapped and beaten Nienor, to know that the sweet mouth he had adored had poured abuse and scorn on his little sister so soon after speaking words of love to him, was enough to near break his heart. And so he had broken the heart of his beloved instead, and had banished her from his side forever. After that, Felia had faded altogether from the citadel, vanishing to some lower tier; lost, denied, abandoned by the one she had destroyed herself for. He still did not allow himself to find out where she went, and neither did he allow himself to care.

Felia had left her mark upon him, though. He would not love in such a way again, for certain. To do so, no matter what _she_ had said and done, would be an insult to the one and only woman he could have married. He could not trust another in such a manner again. He could not, _would _not marry, not a maiden that his father had chosen for him nor any woman that he chose himself, for he would chose no one. When he had finished mourning Felia's betrayal and loss in his heart, he had sworn to himself that he would never let himself be duped in such a way again. The love of his beloved brother and his darling sister was enough for him. Never again would he allow this to happen.

But would his father listen to his reason? The young people of the citadel had some choice in what marriage they would make, but Denethor could not afford to let his children marry recklessly. The Steward himself had married from choice, but that had been relatively late and not when he was young and still much under the authority of his father. Boromir knew all too well that his father loved him the most out of his three children, but he feared that that selfsame love would push him into a marriage that he did not want and never would want. The thought was enough to make him tremble.

He raised his hand, and knocked on the door leading into the Steward's study, waiting for his father's dry voice to call "Enter," before he made his way in. His father's warm, welcoming smile did little or nothing to lift his woe, nor did the gesture to sit near the fire bring any comfort to him, though he obediently sat opposite the chair of the older man, resting his hands on his knees to hide their tremor as he did so.

"Boromir, my son, you are well?"

"I am very well, father, if it pleases you," he lied smoothly, hardly daring to sit back in his seat. The half-smile on Denethor's face troubled him. Was Denethor satisfied at some match he had planned in his head? Was he already envisioning his heir gaining a consort? He both yearned and feared to know what his father thought as he seated himself once more, pulling his luxurious robes closer about him against the cold.

"Certainly it pleases me." The Steward sat back in his own carved chair, drawn closer to the fire for warmth. "For there are things that I must speak to you of now, my son, now that you are at last ready to hear them. Things which will affect your future, and that of your sister and your brother as well."

"I am honoured," he replied calmly, but inside horror was beginning to build in him. What did this mean? Was Denethor planning to displace his other children, in favour of the wife he had found for his eldest son and the relatives that she brought with her? How would his marriage affect his siblings? Already Denethor was speaking again, and he turned his thoughts back to his words.

"Boromir, my son, you know that at your age many young nobles choose to marry, in order to further the lines of their houses."

"I know full well, father." Boromir grasped hold of the arms of his chair to steady himself. His fear was coming true. But Denethor's next words shocked him.

"However, I do not wish you or your brother to be married at this time, my son."

He had to work hard to keep the intense relief out of his voice as he spoke, though there was much surprise in him as well. "Why, father? Surely you would wish to form alliances with other powers?"

"We need form no alliances within the citadel. The authority of the Stewardship is supreme and needs no aid from any other lineage." The finality in his father's voice brooked no opposition, but he could not resist asking further, his relief loosening his tongue.

"With powers outside Gondor, then? With Rohan, perhaps, or Belfalas?" He mentioned these places only in passing, but then regretted his rash words instantly as his father fixed him with piercing eyes.

"Why all of this speculation? Do you wish to be married after all, my son?" The Steward sat forward, perhaps in anticipation of an alliance he had not thought would come to pass until now.

"With all my heart, no, father," Boromir blurted out, forcing himself not to grow alarmed again. "I simply wished to know why you do not wish my brother to wed, while we are still young and strong."

Denethor sighed as he sat back again. "Boromir, it is precisely that you are young and strong now that you will not unite in marriage until you are older. There is great compassion in you, and your heart would be wounded at what you would undoubtedly undergo should you marry now."

Boromir was now intensely curious, in spite of himself. "What do you mean, father?"

Denethor's eyes closed, as if the steward was in pain. "You know, my son, that I and you, and your brother and sister, are all of the line of Númenor?"

"Indeed." How could he not know? He had been raised speaking Adûnaic, the language of his ancestors, as well as Westron and other dialects. The histories he had read only confirmed his blood line and that of his siblings; perhaps the strongest Númenóreanblood still in existence ran in their veins, as it ran in the veins of their father. Nowhere else were the men of the West in more abundance than in the White City.

"And you know that in your mother's house runs the blood of the Dúnedain?"

He knew. It was obvious at the first sight of their uncle, Imrahil, that he had Elvish blood in him; he was far too beautiful and too vigorous still even at his age to be taken for a normal man. As for little Lothíriel, she was so beautiful already she might be an Elven maid herself.

"With both of those blood lines comes long life, as you know full well, and the lineages combined would lengthen life even further. _There_ is your answer, my son. Would you take a wife now, knowing that in years to come you would watch her waste away and die while you lived on? And you will live on, my son; there is no doubt of that. Age will not touch you for a long time, and you will be hardy to most diseases and plagues. You will live on, who knows how long, in strength and vigor, while all around you wither and grow old. Now do you see why I do not wish you to marry now, my son?"

He saw. He saw very well. The knowledge had come as an extreme blow to him. The children of the steward had always been aware of their Númenórean heritage, a source of great pride with them; but now what he had learned made him feel physically sick to his stomach. He stared fixedly at his hands, flexing them listlessly. They were strong, callused from much sword practice, the skin a light brown from riding in the sun so many times without gloves. Would these hands still be the same in ten years time? In twenty years, in thirty? When the nobles he had ridden with and fought alongside and laughed with grew older and wrinkled and stooped, would he still remain young, the same young man whom they had befriended so long ago? That thought was disquieting, even more so than marriage.

"Is that, then, why you chose to marry the Lady Finduilas when you did?" he asked softly. Even speaking his mother's name was a risk now; Denethor's grief had not abated in the years since the love of his life had died out of his sight, and his children trod warily around the perilous subject.

Denethor's eyes opened quickly as he stared at the ceiling before he spoke. "That was one of the reasons for the marriage, my son. But there were…others. Duty to my father was one." His voice trembled slightly as his right hand went to a ring he still wore on one of the fingers of his left hand. "Love was another."

Abruptly he looked back at Boromir. "That is enough for today, my son. I have kept you too long, and I am sure that you are itching to tell your siblings this news. Good day, Boromir."

"Good day, father." Boromir knew well by now when to take his cue to leave, and swiftly rose to make his way to the door, and to escape – he needed to think things over, before he would tell Faramir and Nienor of this latest of meetings.

_Nienor…_

He halted paces from the door, as realization struck him, and he turned back to look at his father, already bending over documents once more.

"Father?"

"Mmmm?" The Steward's reply was less than coherent; already he was lost once more in the business of his city.

"What of Nienor? You have said that Faramir and I will not wed, but our sister? What are your plans for her?"

Denethor's face, as he looked up from his work, was filled with surprise, but there was also a certain satisfaction there as well which Boromir did not like. "Do not fret for you sister, Boromir. There are no plans for her yet. But there will be, in time."

"But, if our blood line runs true, then perhaps she will live even longer than us. Decades longer." Boromir did not like the way his thoughts were running. That Nienor might still be alive, long after both of her brothers were dead, and alone, without even the one she herself had married, was not a pleasant thought at all. "What will you do, father?"

Denethor's mouth set in a hard line before he spoke. "I will do nothing, at this time."

* * *

Faramir hissed between his teeth, as he rested his chin on the back of the chair he was currently straddling. "So, we are to live far longer than the lot of ordinary men?"

"That was what our father told me," Boromir said, trying to keep the unhappiness out of his voice as he sat back in his own seat. "And I see no reason why he would deceive us on this. Consider; we are descended from the two strongest lines of Númenor that still exist in Middle Earth. Why should we not have achieved longevity?"

"And this is why Father would not have you wed?" asked Nienor, from her perch on the large reading stand. The brothers had taken to placing her there whenever they met in the library, as they had now, since it was her favourite seat and it allowed her for once to be taller than either of them. "Because you are too young in the measure of the House of Húrin?"

"So it would seem." Boromir, as with his father, tried hard not to show his relief at this news; it would not do for his brother and sister to find out what he had sworn. Neither of them had ever spoken of Felia again since the day when she had been discharged from Nienor's service, but they would surely be disappointed if they knew he still felt a kind of devotion for her, even if it was mixed with hatred.

"I do not mind if I do not find a bride soon," Faramir said slowly, voicing his own thoughts. "I would have little to offer her, in any case." His brother lowered his eyes, probably to avoid meeting his own, before he went on. "But this news, it is disturbing. I do not think that I would enjoy living while all around me grew old and died."

There was a pause, where none of the three siblings could meet the gaze of the others. Put so bleakly by his brother, what he had dwelt over earlier now seemed all the more stark and horrible.

"Our blood is not that potent, after so many generations." Nienor said after some time, gazing out of the window, chewing her lip in thought before she spoke again. "The span of the life of a normal man is fifty years or so, sixty or seventy if he is lucky and he escapes war and plague and accident. Would we live much longer than that, do you think?"

"Perhaps not. But our longevity has been strengthened by the strain from Dol Amroth. At a guess, I would say that all of us would live close on a hundred years or more, if, as you say, we escape war and accident, though plague we need not fear so."

Faramir's quiet words dropped into the silence like a stone into a well. _A hundred years or more…_Boromir had hardly thought such an age could be reached any longer. Only the Elves or the Men of Ages past could grow to such an age and not die or be as feeble as a babe in arms, withered and fragile and senile. But he and Faramir and Nienor would not age in such a way; they would remain tall and vigorous and beautiful until the day they died, long years from now.

He was not sure whether to be frightened or elated.

"And me?" Nienor asked slowly, still apparently engaged in what lay out of the window. "What is there for me, Boromir?"

"My sister?" This was dangerous. What could he tell Nienor? That she would probably live long enough to watch them die before her? No, he could not do that. She was fragile little thing, for all her apparent strength. He would not wish that on her.

"You and Faramir will not wed for years," Nienor said patiently, closing her eyes, her legs tucked up to her chin, "but Father has said nothing of what my fate will be. What does he wish for me, Boromir?"

Her quiet, unyielding voice gave him no other option but the truth, which was a relief in some ways but a torment in others. "He said he had no plans for you as of yet, Nienor."

"But he will." Nienor turned her face away from him again, back to the window. "When I have turned twenty myself, Father will undoubtedly have a plan for me."

_

* * *

I do not say what I think as Faramir and Boromir begin to try to reassure me. I am too busy with my own thoughts, which are not at all pleasant or reassuring. Bad enough that I know now that my life span will be far beyond that of any other woman, bad enough that I might out live my brothers – though Boromir certainly would not say that in front of me – but now I know what fate lies in store for me._

_Now I know what my father plans to do with me. Perhaps I have known ever since I swore my oath with my unlucky blood and on my mother's grave when I was barely six, and failed to make friends with my cousin because I was strange. He will wait until I am old enough to be betrothed, and then as soon as I am twenty I will be married off._

_That is what he will do with me. He would be rid of me._

_Even knowing for so long that he hates me, it is still a shock when I finally realise the truth of his plans. Do I truly mean as little to him as that? He will keep Boromir and Faramir close to him, but he will sell me away with barely a thought, into a fate I could not stand. _

_It is not fair._

_It is not fair!_

_It's not** fair!** If I had been born a boy, surely he would not hate me so much. I did not ask to be born female. I did not ask to come tearing out of my mother, ending her life and earning his enmity. I have never done anything to warrant this treatment. I had never done anything to make Felia hate me so. I have never done anything wrong, so why must this now be my life? Subject to a father's vice, in the end separated from the brothers I love and thrown into the waiting arms of a detestable man?_

_But I must be calm. I can do nothing by screaming and shouting. Force is not the key here; but craft is. If Father plans to play a devious game with me, I will play one with him as well. Maybe I will outwit him, maybe not. But I hope to succeed._

_Eleven years, then. Eleven years. Eleven years until I am fit to wed._ _Eleven years until Father would have my life end by making me marry. I must use these next few years wisely, to aid me. I will tell no one of my plan, not even my brothers. My secret shall be mine and mine alone, and only the Valar will know._

_I will learn. I will absorb whatever knowledge I can. I will not sulk, or mope; I will make my life worth living, and make myself worthy. Not to my father, but to myself. I have spent too long hiding in shadows. I will live. For the next eleven years, I will live and learn. I am better than a pawn in a marriage alliance, and I know it._

_If I have not escaped the prospect of marriage by the time I an twenty – if I have not convinced Father of my usefulness, or asserted my worth – then my life will not be worth living any longer, and it will not matter if I have untold years ahead of me if I have nothing to look forward to save marriage, childbirth and death. But until then…_

_Yes; until then, I will live._

**

* * *

I always found the prospect of why neither Boromir nor Faramir had gotten married, considering they were both well into their adult years, intriguing – not that I mind too much, since if Faramir had been married our favourite little shield maiden would have been left out in the cold – and I eventually came to the conclusion that either they didn't see any pressing need to tie the knot yet, or they simply didn't want to. Of course, other possibilities have probably crossed people's minds as well; but for the sake of my sanity I prefer to stick to my theories.**

**As for the extended life spans of our lovable trio, for any of you who might be protesting, consider. Their mother had the blood of the Dúnedain in her – it says somewhere in the appendices that it was unusual that she died so young, even though she was in her thirties when she died – and everyone goes on about how the blood of Númenor ran true in Denethor and Faramir, though not in Boromir. Nevertheless he probably reaped some benefits from his parents' blood. If you want any more proof that the family of the citadel is well preserved, Faramir's canon death came at the age of one hundred and twenty. Whether he will do so here remains to be seen, though.**


	8. 3001

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Lord of the Rings.**

* * *

**I apologise for the squeamish nature of this chapter. You see, there's blood, and a lot of it, but not where it's considered tasteful - if it's ever tasteful.**

* * *

_**3001**_

The Houses of Healing, situated on the sixth and near top-most level of Minas Tirith, were a place of peace and tranquillity. Here it was that the people of Gondor came when they were sick or injured to be tended to by the famed healers of Gondor, who were rumoured to be able to cure all ills, save age; and also where those women of the city who aided in the birth of children, the midwives, made their dwelling place. Life flourished and endured here, not only in the restful chambers but in the shady colonnades and fabulous gardens which in the summer made the sixth ring of the city grow green with renewed health and vigour; as did those who were cured of their various ailments by the loyal men and women who served in the name of Estë, the Divine Healer, and who wore only grey as a tribute to she who healed all hurts and weariness.

But the many rooms of the level were relatively empty on this fine morn, and most of those who served within had seen no need to be present in the quiet echoing chambers if there were none who needed their care. The sun shone in through the windows upon empty beds, waiting for the next sufferer to be lain upon them in pain, hoping to find ease, and the gardens, save for a few whose task it was to prune and cut the lawns and plants, had none to pace their paths.

Thus it was, by some strange chance or fate deemed by the Valar, that Ioreth was utterly alone when she received the strangest visitor the halls had had in a good many years.

She had merely been laying out fresh sheets upon the beds in chambers to prepare against the inevitable time when more citizens would come in need of the ministrations of she and her fellows, when she was startled out of her mundane task by a soft voice from the doorway, forming itself around a single word. "Mistress?"

When she had turned, flustered, to see who it could be that was so unfamiliar to this ring of the city – for the healers all called each other by name, not by station – she had at first only taken note of the rich dress and ornament of the small, slight figure standing in the open doorway: a crushed velvet dress of midnight blue, like to the fashion and colour of the robes of a Maiden of Nienna, though the women who had forsaken marriage would surely never wear such a wonderful garment. Ioreth, though she had lived and worked in an order which allowed only simple clothes for close on three score years, nevertheless still had an eye for fine cloth – her father had been a merchant, after all, and her mother before she had married had worked in a weaver's shop.

But all that came to nothing when she became aware of who exactly the dress adorned. Her mouth had opened unwittingly as she recognised the features of the maiden, or rather the girl, who now paced towards her with a ripple of dark skirts that did not touch the floor, and her hair still braided child-like with silken ribbons that matched her dress, binding some of her dark tresses and letting the rest fall to her waist. She had known that face all too well years before now, although it had been on a far older woman than this girl, and that lady had _never_ had such an expression of sullenness and resignation mixed together.

Why should the Lady Nienor have come here? The children of the Steward had never been sick a day in their lives, or if they had then _she _knew nothing of it. How had the lady managed to evade her maids and the guards to come down here, beyond the citadel, to the Houses of Healing, without being caught? Did the Lord Denethor know of this seeming illicit visit? All these thoughts and more raged inside her head as it took the time for Nienor to make her way from the entrance of the room to stand in front of her, raising her head to look at her face; for Ioreth, despite the lady's Númenorean blood, was still slightly taller than her. This appeared to do little for her temper, and she apparently had to swallow down her irritation before she went on.

"Mistress? You will forgive me, but you are a skilled healer?" Her voice was soft and clear, belying any anger she might feel; her cheekbones were high and her lips full, even at this young age, giving hint to the beauty she would one day be. Ioreth abruptly closed her mouth, aware of what a fool she must look when compared to this moon-rise of a girl, and tried to regain her composure as she carefully placed the remaining sheets on the bed beside her.

"I am Ioreth, my lady," she said once she had straightened herself to face the Lady Nienor once more, slightly stung by the words she had heard but determined not to show it, "and I have worked in these halls for near thirty years. I am as skilled as I can hope to be, though there is always new learning to be found in the arts of healing."

The noble girl looked at her closely, her dark eyes slightly narrowed as if contemplating her words. "I wish to speak to you for a time. I have something of which I must ask you," she said at length.

"If you wish it, Lady Nienor I will happily answer whatever questions you might have for me."

"I thank you; but not here." The girl looked around, and her eyes alighted on one of the lawns just outside the window of this particular hall. "Let us go into the gardens. They should be as empty as the Houses, should they not? Come." At once she paced off, the healer hurrying after her and full of wonder at how this had come to pass, that the daughter of Denethor should come into these quiet halls and order her to pass time with her, walking in the gardens!

As they entered the garden the lady had seen out of the window together, Ioreth having caught up by that time, they had a fine view over the wall of this ring of the city and down to the land far below them. The Pelennor fields shone as green as the lawns in the morning light, the tiny dust tracks on the worn roads giving sign to where traders and farmers went to and fro, delivering their goods to Minas Tirith or returning to whence they had come. It was a charming and at the same time awe-inducing sight, showing the might and power of the city and the family who ruled it in the wake of the absent monarch.

Indeed, the only thing which marred the otherwise wonderful view were the dark, craggy mountains that verged on the horizon, and the grey skies which clouded above them, the clouds turbulent and stormy. Visitors to the city were often alarmed by their first sight of Mordor, and questioned the inhabitants in alarm as to the danger that threatened, but those who had lived in Minas Tirith all their lives knew well that the skies had always been grey, but no threat. The worst that could come out of Mordor now was orcs, and orcs that could be defeated by the soldier sand Rangers at that.

Or at least, that was their story and their comfort, until a year ago. The shadows above Mordor, once small and slight, had grown in size and power significantly. More orcs than ever had been reported in the lands beyond the mountains; even great Minas Tirith and her Steward were becoming worried in the face of this new and alarming change. The residents of the city could only pray to the Valar that Mordor's re-awakening would go no further, though few had hope that their prayers would be answered. But for now the sun was warm, the skies - save above the Land of Shadow - were blue, and in the spring that grew into summer Gondor was content, if not altogether at peace.

The Lady Nienor looked at the view spread out before them, her apparent temper gone and her face almost wistful, her eyes following the tiny shapes of the people traveling across the plains. Ioreth remembered that the Steward's youngest child and only daughter had never been allowed out of the city gates into the land outside Minas Tirith, perhaps never even allowed into the lower rings of the city at that. Her brothers at least were more fortunate – if you could call it fortunate, being sent into Ithilien to hunt rabid orcs for months on end. But before their sister was born, and their mother had died, the sons of Denethor had traveled all the way to Belfalas and Amroth and the sea, a distance she herself could never imagine or undertake. No doubt Nienor envied her brothers, and envied the freedom they were given.

Once again Ioreth was reminded of the Lady Finduilas. Unlike her children the lady had sometimes been plagued by weakness, and had come to reside for a time in the Houses of Healing. She was proud to remember that she had grown quite close to the wife of the Steward in time, and the lady seemed to like her as well, often leaning on her arm as they walked about the gardens, as Ioreth did now with her daughter, though Nienor needed no help to walk. She recalled that once Finduilas had stopped to look across the battlements and into the lands beyond the city, to where she knew Belfalas lay, so far away. The expression that had been on her face was very like to the one that Nienor wore now.

But then she sighed, and her face was smoothed clean of any emotion, a bland mask. It was a frightening trait to see in a child so young – or was she truly that young? She was twelve now, surely. In any case, she turned away from the wall and instead walked quickly along the path, and Ioreth had to run after her again, holding her skirts up out of the way.

Fortuitously for Ioreth, who was not used to running anywhere anymore, and soon had a pain in her side, Nienor abruptly stopped beside a stone bench in the shade of a gloriously leafy tree. "This will do," she stated quietly, and after brushing a few leaves from the dusty stone seated herself. Ioreth quickly did the same, carefully to adjust her dress so that it would not brush against the lady's feet in disrespect.

She had thought that Nienor would remain silent for a time, until she chose to speak again. The girl struck her as the sort of person who did not speak unless she had to do so. But as soon as she had settled herself comfortably the lady began to speak, more urgently than before, a haste that did not befit her seemingly calm demeanor.

"Mistress Ioreth, I need your aid. There is some strange sickness that I suffer from. I come to you because I do not know who else I should turn to."

"Tell me what ails you, my lady, and I will do my very best to heal you from it," Ioreth replied quickly. If it had been almost any other woman or young girl she sat beside she would have taken her hand to comfort her, but that was not possible here.

Nienor looked down at her hands, taking her dark eyes off her face for a few moments. Instead she watched her fingers twist in the cloth of her dress. "It is this. I bleed. I have bled for two days now, but no matter how I try to staunch it I cannot halt the flow, and I have lost so much blood that I think I will die of it." Her face was still calm, but her hands dug into her knees at her last words.

Ioreth was at a loss for what to say. She had heard of diseases where the blood could not grow solid and therefore naturally seal up a wound, though those who suffered the ailment did so from birth, rather than manifesting it at a certain point in life. As she thought of that, another idea entirely of what might be troubling the girl came swiftly to mind indeed. She might be wrong – twelve was very young for a girl to start – but she was most likely right.

"Lady Nienor," she asked, as gently as she could and leaning forward to see her face more easily, "where does the blood come from?"

There was a silence, which this time was to be expected, and then Nienor ground out the answer: "From between my legs."

She could have laughed in relief, were it not that she might offend the person who had asked for her aid. That which many of the residents of the citadel - not least the Lord Denethor - had been waiting for, had finally arrived, confided to her upon a hot summer's day. She wondered though why it had not emerged before now, if it had been two days since when it started; Nienor's maids were reputed to be watching her bed sheets like hawks. Evidently they had not done their duty thoroughly enough.

"Do your maids or ladies know about this, my lady?" she ventured to ask. Evidently the sudden absence of worry in her face alerted the girl, for she looked up at her sharply.

"No," she said bluntly.

"Have you told any of them yet?"

"_No," _and that was said with vehemence. "I would not even have told my brothers, had they been here; why should I tell _them_? You are the first to know of this, I have made quite sure of it. Tell me, Mistress Ioreth, do you know what is wrong with me, or have I wasted my time in coming to you?"

Forgetting decorum she quickly placed her hand upon Nienor's arm to forestall against her rising and stalking off in offence. "Forgive me, Lady Nienor, for seeming to make too light of the situation. But let me assure you that there is no wrong within you. The bleeding is perfectly natural; there is no evil in it."

"It is natural?" Nienor had now lost all composure and was staring at her with bewilderment written plain to see upon her face. "How can it be natural?"

_Oh, Estë, _Ioreth thought. Was it possible that the Lady Nienor, for all her rumored learning and wisdom at her young age, could have grown to the age of twelve without knowing what men and women did together, and what a woman's body did by itself? It seemed as much to her. The ladies of the citadel were often cloistered away in mind and body from such crude revelations. Even those who were married refused to speak of what went on in their bedchambers with husband or lover.

_Unless, of course,_ she thought wryly, if _they are certain former ladies-in-waiting._

"Lady Nienor," she began desperately in the meantime, "do you know what must happen for a man to get a babe upon a woman?"

"Of course." The girl appeared to have calmed down somewhat, and was now watching her closely.

"And do you know that the babe grows inside the woman for nine months before it is ready to be born?" Again Nienor curtly signified her understanding, proving that she was not as ignorant as Ioreth had feared, but still ignorant enough in this case. She went on regardless. "Do you know where the babe grows?"

"In the woman's stomach," Nienor said at once, and placed her hand upon her own for effect, across her middle. Ioreth found it increasingly difficult not to shake her head at the task before her. She had already been fully aware of what her mother and sisters often called the 'curse' by the time _she_ was twelve, though perhaps this was more because she was from one of the common families in the city and had had three older sisters, who had all gone through their coming of age before her. To one who did not know what to expect and had never known, the renewal of life within her body was not something to rejoice in, but rather to fear.

"A little further down than that, my lady," was all she said, and went on to explain about the womb and the role it played in beginning a new life. Nienor listened silently as she spoke, as simply as she could, of how every month a woman's sex lined with blood to nourish new life, and how if a child was not conceived that blood would leave the same route that the baby would have taken, over several days. She spoke of how women tied cloth into their dresses or robes to soak up the blood, and how during those days they often rested, preferring not to move too much or too often.

"You see, my lady," she finished. "This bleeding, your courses, is ordinary and no danger. It happens to all women, save those who are too old. Like the changing of your body, it is simply a sign of becoming a woman." She neglected to mention that in less civilized countries such as Rhun and the deserts further south, it was all the girl's family needed to offer her as a bride at her first blood, once she was able to breed.

Nienor nodded without a word, and once again looked out over the walls that bordered the gardens. Now that Ioreth was armed with her new knowledge, she could see that Nienor's breast, which she had previously thought flat, was now straining ever so slightly at the velvet that covered it, and she was aware of the girl's hips, more evident now as her body began the aforementioned changes. Looking back up to her pensive face, she had to work back a sigh.

_Estë, _she thought again, now not with disbelief but with wonder, _when she reaches her prime, she will surely be the most beautiful woman in Gondor. _

"Do Elven women have courses?" Nienor suddenly demanded, turning back to look at her. She blinked in the wake of the question.

"I…I do not know, my lady. I am not familiar with Elven habits," she managed.

"But they bear children too, in the same way as Men," Nienor persisted. "Surely they, too, must renew their bodies? All that I have read makes no mention of this."

Ioreth by this time had had time to think, and her thoughts had turned to the little she knew of fertility outside the realm of mortal women.

"Well, Lady Nienor," she began slowly, still dwelling upon the right words to speak, "I have no doubt that they do; otherwise they would not be able to breed at all. No creature of hot blood can live inside their mother without the blood of life, the blood of the womb. But you must understand that, although your courses are nothing to be ashamed of, and should instead be celebrated, men and males do not understand them as well as we do. Since they cannot create life they make no sense of it in us, or in how it is brought about. The chronicles that you have read were, no doubt, most probably written by men, and men see little or no importance in what we woman suffer to bear them their children and heirs. Our renewal to them is scandalous, perhaps even shameful, not to be mentioned. Sometimes it is the case that those who shed blood are sickened by the very mention of the blood that rules the lives of their mothers and wives and daughters.

"And the Elves…well, while I am sure that they see sanctity in birth and the lives of their children, it is perhaps not as important to them as it is to us. Most animals bear offspring because they are mortal and need to carry on their line, and so do we, for if we did not then war and famine and disease would destroy us. Elves are immortal, not born to die, so for them there is no such urge to have children. When you live forever, there is no pressing need to live through the generation that is to come." She considered what she would say next, before going on. "You know that there are certain times that a female animal comes into heat during the year, when they are able to breed?"

"Yes, my brothers have spoken of it among the horses in the stables often."

"Animals are different from humans, in that they are only fertile for part of the year. The race of Men, however, is fertile all the year round. Each month a woman casts off her old blood to prepare anew for the life that might begin within her. This is, perhaps, why Men have spread so readily across Middle-Earth. We do not live long, but we make more life quickly."

"And the Elves?" Nienor steadily drew her back to the matter in hand.

"Ah, yes, the Elves. I cannot say for certain, but perhaps it is the same for them. Since they have no call to bear children, perhaps they have no need to be eternally fertile, or at least fertile constantly for a time, at the prime of our lives, and then barren. And so they pay no heed to the importance of the moon. They call him Tilion, a hunter, a steersman, and praise him in songs, but they do not see his importance in matters of birth.

"Surely the Elves are indeed different from us when it comes to fertility, for otherwise they would know that the blood that gives life waxes and wanes as the moon waxes and wanes. As the moon fades, so does our fertility, and it comes back as the moon returns. That is why some women still call the blood of our courses moon blood, or hunter's blood."

"I see." Once more Nienor looked down at her hands, though now they were spread upon her knees. "Ioreth, is the beginning of my courses important to my father?"

"I…believe so, Lady Nienor," Ioreth said cautiously, brought back to herself by this latest searching question. Rumor was rife in the citadel that Denethor was eager for his only daughter to come of age, presumably so that she could be betrothed as soon as was possible. Though marriage among nobles was not allowed until they reached the age of twenty, as all who lived in the upper levels of the city knew well, there was nothing to prevent the Steward promising any of his children in marriage before that time came.

Nienor nodded, thoughtful again. "I knew that they were watching me more closely than usual," she said softly, with perhaps even a trace of sorrow. "My every movement, my every action, was under close guard. They paid such attention to my bedclothes and my dresses. I thought that they knew something, and would use it against me. When the blood came, I hid my stained garments." The girl, now a maiden, turned to look at her once more. "If they know, will they tell my father of it?"

"Assuredly." Nienor nodded, and to her surprise she smiled, for the first time since she had met her.

"Then do you go and tell him instead, Ioreth. I'll warrant they have not yet looked underneath my bed and found the proof; they will still be looking for me."

Ioreth looked closely at Nienor, trying to perceive any reason for this sudden generosity on her part. "My lady? Are you certain this is what you wish?"

"Certain indeed. I would rather it be you who tell him that I am now a woman than any of _them._ You have shown more kindness to me in this short space of time than any of them have done in six years, and you should reap the reward of my confession to you accordingly." Nienor reached out and actually took her browned and lined hand, holding it briefly in her soft one. "I am glad that it was you who told me the truth, Ioreth. Now, go and tell my father what I have told you."

"You will not come with me?" A shake of her head was the healer's reply, and so she rose. After all, who was she to command the Lady Nienor, now truly a lady?

As she looked back from her retreat along the paths she saw Nienor's head bent over her knees, her pale hands clasping her dress. At once she thought to stop and turn back, but the remembrance of the need in the maiden's farewell checked her. Nienor no longer needed someone to talk to, she needed to be alone.

When her courses had begun, Ioreth remembered, as she turned to hurry along again, her mother and sisters had been delighted. Her mother, when she had found the stained cloths – for she, like Nienor, had kept it a secret – had been so overjoyed that she could hardly speak for happiness. Her older sisters, two of whom were married and pregnant by then and one who was betrothed, had crowded and teased and cosseted her as they had combed out her once brown hair and braided it up in a woman's style for the first time in her life, and covered it with the scarf that she would wear from then on. Her mother had baked her special sweet cakes and even her father, who had flushed with embarrassment when he had returned to find this celebration on the part of the many women in his household, had embraced her and kissed her cheeks and called her his newest little lady, pride and joy in his face.

That day had been a happy one indeed. But it could not be in sharper contrast to this morn for Nienor. She had no mother to bake her cakes, only a legacy of sorrow and tears that had never dried; she had no sisters to braid her hair and tease her, and her father was certainly not the sort to take her in his arms with pride and joy. What she had were ladies who spied on her in someone else's pay, two loving brothers who could now but rarely be by her side, who were now even in Ithilien, and a court who saw her only as a hollow vessel who was now ready to be filled, despite the fact that she leaked.

_

* * *

_

_I thought I would have more time. I honestly thought that I would have more time. When I swore, three years ago, that I would make the best use I could out of the years that I had left, I did not think that I would become a woman so soon. But even my body, my treacherous body, has turned against me. Against my will my breasts have begun to swell and my hips to grow outwards. And now this, this bleeding, that Ioreth assures me is perfectly natural for all women. I would curse myself, were it not so ridiculous. _

_I was afraid when the blood came. I was truly afraid. Then, I did not understand what was happening to me. In all the books I had read on reaching adulthood, I had never read of anything like this. Why did they not write about this, anywhere? Surely they must have known about it, surely their wives or mistresses must have complained of the cramps, the itching, the blood: so much blood. How can they be so ignorant as not to know? When they split bone and reap gore on the battlefield, why are they so squeamish when it comes to the blood from whence they came?_

_I truly thought that I was dying. Why else would such thick, black gouts of blood slide from my body? When I woke up that first morning and I felt the wretched ache between my legs, and then I pulled back the coverlet and saw the dark mess, it was all that I could do not to vomit where I lay. I thought that my innards were sure to follow, though when they did not I was no less frantic. I hid the sheets and my shift and brought out new ones, and the maids could not tell the difference, nor could those creatures who call themselves my ladies-in-waiting. I thought at first when it stopped for a time that it was ended, but no, the blood came again. I tore off strips from the ruined sheet and shift with my teeth to try and make a dam, hoping that it would stop the endless stream, but they did little or nothing. Wherever I walked I feared that a trail of blood would follow me, a disgusting mark of decay. I did not dare to sit down lest my clothes should be soaked through, I dreaded going to bed lest I stain the sheets again. So much blood had I lost, I wondered that there was any left in me._

_They were a dark two days; and now even when I know that soon the flow will stop and I will be at peace, it will begin again in a month's time, and again after that, for years to come. The thought of it makes me sick at heart. Already it takes all of my will not to scream at the pain within me now: how shall I fare when I must go through this every month? How shall I fare when I bleed constantly and feel relentless pain? I will not do it. I cannot do it. If this is what it means to be a woman, then I would be a child forever, never changing._

_But if I remain a child, then I will forever be at the whim of others. So long as I wear my hair like a little girl I will be of no regard at all, less than no regard. A woman has little power, but she has more so than a child. In any case, I have no choice. Whether I will it or no, I am now a woman, and my father will soon know of it and act accordingly._

_I am not sorry that it is Ioreth who will tell him. I hardly know the healer, but from our discussion I know full well that she is kinder than any of my maids or the women of the court, and a good deal cleverer. I would rather she took the news to my father than any of the creatures in his pay. It will be a surprise to him that a healer knows what none of his spies were able to find out, whether in the court or in my rooms._

_Valar, this hurts. It feels like an iron hand is reaching up inside me and grinding my insides into dust. Already I feel more blood loosening within me; it is a good thing that I was prepared and padded myself anew, before I came to speak to Ioreth. Once the truth is out, no doubt I will be provided with all that Ioreth spoke of – cloth strips to tie into my clothing, numbing drinks to ease the pain, sweet smelling perfumes to take away the iron scent of my inner secret spilling out into the world._

_Valar, how I hate this. How I hate this all. How I hate my blood. How I hate my maids. How I hate the ladies. How I hate my fellows in the wretched citadel. How I hate my…_

_I cannot think like this. It will destroy me. I will not let my pain master me, or those who plot behind my back undo me. If I must bite my lips until they bleed as much as my womb and I walk in pain all the days of my life, then what does it matter, so long as I stride tall and proud despite my agony and the shame others would heap upon me? _

_I know now that I do not want to be a child any longer. I have my new pain, and it rouses me and makes me strong, stronger._

_I do not know how long I have sat here before a noise rouses me from my thoughts; a cough. I look up to see one of my maids standing before me, I cannot even remember her name. She curtsies deeply and speaks quickly: "The Lord Denethor has ordered that you come to see him in his rooms. He awaits you there even now."_

_So, Ioreth has already told her tale. I watch this maid carefully for any trick or malice, though she looks new and fairly innocent, and then I let myself smile. She is nervous already, and this does not help in the slightest on my part. I am not a little girl any longer. I am a woman. And if I am a woman – why! I shall behave like a woman._

"_Very well," I say, rising. "I will go to my father." I look at her as I pass and she begins to fall into step behind me. "You need not come with me," I add, "I will go alone."_

_I do not wait to see the surprise on her face, I do not wait to hear her gasp of shock. I am a woman, now, and not a child. I do not need to be taken everywhere. I can take myself, by myself. My skirt rustles around me, applauding me._

_My gowns will be longer from now onwards, so that they will reach the ground as I walk, and my hair will be bound up. I will need the maids for something, though I would prefer to learn to do it myself. If only Men still held to the fashions of the Elves! Then women would not need to braid their tresses in modesty instead of letting them flow free, as men may do. If only I might be like Lúthien, who I am certain never had to braid that dark hair she is so very famed for. _

_But then, I do not like to dance._

_But I do wonder what Boromir and Faramir will say, when they come back to find their sister grown out of her old dresses and her old ways, now grown like them. Perhaps they will both be proud of me, surely they will be surprised. They will be happy for me, but I think that they will be sorrowful as well. Boromir will mourn the loss of my old self. Will I no longer be his treasured little sister? Never! I will always show my love for him. I will never cease to be his sister. Faramir…what will Faramir think? Will he no longer wish to tutor me, to learn with me? Will I lose both their company? No, that must never happen. Woman though I am, and child no longer, I am still their sister, and though I have begun to bleed, that will not change their love for me. _

_In all these thoughts, my feet have led me to the door of my father's study without ever thinking of the route I must take. I raise my hand and beat out a rhythm upon the wood._

"_Enter," I hear my father say – the first time in days that I have heard his voice. So I push the door inwards and I enter the room._

_Ioreth stands by my father's desk, her lined face worried, though she manages a smile for me. My father…he stands by the window, just turned from looking out upon the city. His robes are dark this day, trimmed with silvery fur, as they always are now. He looks so old, his hair is as grey as his furs, his face as lined as his hands. I…I cannot tell what expression is upon his face, I cannot fathom it. He is a deep well that has no end._

"_Nienor," he says, and his voice I cannot fathom either. Has my skill of reading he, whom no other can understand, gone along with my childhood? "Ioreth has brought me intriguing news indeed. Is what she says true, my daughter?"_

_I remain silent as I close the door behind me, preparing myself. But before I can speak he has suddenly crossed the room, and his old hands are warm and hard upon my shoulders and I have to look up to meet his gaze, dark and deep, and hear his voice so close as he asks of me again:_

"_Nienor? Is it true?"_

_I could bait him. I could throw back the failure of his own spies in his face. I could demean the importance of the issue, of his demand. But now, with that look upon his face and in his eyes, and that voice of his, a kind I have never heard in him before, I find that I can speak only the truth._

"_Yes, father. Yes, it is true."_

_He stares at me. In all my life, he has never looked at me in such a way before. Something stirs within his face, as if moving underneath his skin, worming its way up to his eyes. He sighs, and releases me as swiftly as he seized me. "That is good. That is very good." He smiles, an expression which looks out of place. I can read him now. He is proud and pleased – but for me? Or for himself? I am answered as he places his right hand upon me again, this time upon my head. I feel the warmth of his skin and the coldness of his ring, the Steward's ring, through my hair. I look at him for some answer; once again I read nothing in his face, or his smile, or his eyes. Is that which is crawling in his eyes tears? No, of course not._

"_May the Valar bless you then, Nienor, my daughter, now that you have come to womanhood." His words appear to be true, as does his blessing. I smile up at him, and perhaps my smile is as false as his and a worm crawls under my own face. That worm is my own cowardice, in the face of the one person whom I cannot control, but instead controls me._

"_I thank you, my father. I thank you indeed."_

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**I apologise to anyone who might be offended by the content of this chapter. I have done my best to keep it as tasteful as possible, but when it comes down to it, periods are messy, and there's no getting away from it. I should know. **

**This chapter, while getting in a new character and showing some character development, also poses a question I have long considered about the Elves, and which Nienor asks outright. Which tells you something about my frame of mind.**

**In many cultures a girl was generally considered to have become an adult when she reached puberty, and was therefore able to have children. Sometimes her female relatives would celebrate at her first blood, other times they would lock her away for the time that she was bleeding, since they considered it unclean and shameful. Read the Old Testament and you'll get some idea of the Lord's views on periods. In the nineteenth century most upper class girls weren't even told about them, so they truly thought they were diseased or dying, or had demons in them.**

**I personally pity anyone who has to sit their daughter down and explain that she's going to go through this sort of thing for the next thirty years or so, if she's not already too worldly. Fortunately I was already aware of what was going to happen by the time I started 'suffering' it, partly thanks to sex education at school, so my mum was let off the hook. **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	9. 3002

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, except for my own original character.**

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**_3002_**

It had been a very strange night indeed for he whom some called Gandalf, others named Greyhame and was at this moment being addressed by the dark-haired young man sitting opposite him as Mithrandir.

Surely the Valar who had sent him to this land, many long years ago, had destined this meeting between he and an old, near forgotten companion, for otherwise how else should he have let himself be apprehended by the group of Rangers that had stumbled across him truding stolidly through the hills in snow-clad Ithilien? He had had other, more pressing matters to face than being held captive by Men of Gondor; he had a task, after all, to perform. Gollum, the slimy creature, as dark as darkness, that Bilbo had met sixty years before and tricked and escaped, _must_ be found, and questioned as to where he came by that which had eluded his own attention for all these years: the ring.

_The ring!_

Even the thought of it now caused misgivings in his mind, as he sat by a fireside and felt its warmth. Why had he never before considered the extent of its perhaps evil properties, why had he never given true thought to the shadow that had fallen upon his heart, along with the thing's sudden emergence? Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded by Saruman that all was well?

For all was plainly _not _well. Even if Bilbo had given the thing up willingly, in the end, and had broken its hold upon him, there was still the matter of Frodo, who now supposedly possessed it. Would the young hobbit prove to be as strong as Bilbo? What would happen to him if he was not? What would happen to any other to whom the ring might pass? The thought of what Bilbo had said, that night back in September, and the words he remembered of the creature who had spoken very much alike, were enough to keep the wizard awake during the nights that had grown colder and colder yet.

A ring. A ring of power. A Great Ring, undoubtedly. But all such Rings were lost or destroyed, or else set upon fingers that would never relinquish them, in this world or the next. So what, exactly, was it that Gollum had lost, all those years ago under the Misty Mountains, and what had Bilbo found, and now passed on to Frodo? Such things were not to be neglected or overlooked. Not any longer. He could not shake the thought, both glorious and terrible, that whatever was certain to emerge from this business, in the end,was what he had been sent to Middle Earth to achieve – or to thwart.

But some secret whisper in his mind had persuaded him to think that to go with those who had discovered would not be so foolish or as reckless as some of his previous actions had been; and so he allowed them to bind a cloth over his eyes and lead him blindly along many paths, until they reached a place where water had dripped upon his face, and then his eyes had been unveiled to meet those of the one he had been brought to meet, and whom he was once very familiar with indeed.

Anyone who had ever met and known Finduilas of Dol Amroth could not deny for a moment that this young man was her son, for it was as if his mother's face had been set onto the bones of his skull with only few changes, and as if he looked out at the world with her eyes, grey like clouds in the sky. Those piercing eyes had looked at him in surprise from where the youth had sat upon a stony seat, and the smile that had quirked his lips suggested that, despite the years that had passed since last they had seen each other, he had lost no memory of the wizard or the times they had shared together.

"You have not changed much since last we met, Mithrandir," he had spoken softly, in Sindarin as they had always conversed.

"Perhaps I have not, Faramir, but _you_ have certainly gained some height," he had replied accordingly, ignoring the whispers that had broken out as the various Rangers became aware of who exactly their captive was. The Grey Wizard had always been something of a legend in Gondor, considering he lived longer than any other man and yet was clearly no elf and possibly knew more than even the wisest lore masters.

The young captain had simply laughed, and had called for food and drink for his guest, for such Gandalf now was. They had seated themselves by the small fire set in the wall of the cave they were presently in and shared out what they were given by the wondering though obedient Rangers; and then Faramir had stood and faced the West for a time, silently, paying tribute to Númenor that once was. Once he was seated again he had asked, smiling the soft smile of his boyhood that he had not lost with age, for news of the lands beyond Gondor's borders.

"Tell me everything, Mithrandir."

Gandalf was reminded uncomfortably of someone else who had asked such a thing, in a land far away from this one, many months ago.

"Everything?" he managed, with a smile of his own. "The people of Gondor would say you are less interested in your own land than is good for you."

Putting thoughts of Frodo and Bilbo and their shared, dubious treasure from his mind, at least for a little while, he began at once an abridged version of what had happened to him in the twelve years since they had last met, when Faramir had been six and his mother had been with child and all of Minas Tirith had been bright with expectancy. He took care to say little or nothing of the Shire, or of those who lived within it, lest more come to think of the supposedly legendary 'Halflings' as something more than myth, but he freely told Faramir of many of the places he had seen and the people that he had met, painting a picture of his journeys in Middle Earth as only he could. He spoke of traveling to Mirkwood, and to Rivendell, and to further South than even the borders of Gondor reached where he was called Incánus, and to the Lonely Mountain where Thorin Oakenshield lay, with the Arkenstone forever lying upon his breast, and where the river was said to once again flow with gold.

Faramir listened with eyes shining in the fire light and eager ears, and he asked questions, as had been his wont even when he was young, about everything and everywhere that the wizard had been and done. His bread and meat long finished, he leaned forward and told Gandalf in turn of how life in the citadel had fared since his mother's death, and how Minas Tirith had changed since last he visited. The wizard was pleased to hear that both the sons of the Steward had grown well, although it pained him to hear Faramir speak so calmly of his father's apparent disregard for him. He longed to offer some words of comfort, but he could tell that this was an old hurt for Faramir, as was his mother's death, and to intrude would only be to pick at a healing wound and infect it once more.

He was happier to hear of the friendship and comradeship that had lasted between the two brothers, for both might be needed all too soon if what he feared might come to pass; and to know that Faramir, unlike Boromir, still harbored the passion for learning and lore than had drawn the wizard to him when he was a child. Gondor needed more men who loved books rather than the sword, and simply for Faramir to choose such a path made him wiser than many others of the race of Men he had met in his long time walking Middle Earth.

And though he tried not to show it, whenever Faramir made mention of his sister was when his interest grew the most. Gandalf, like so many others, had never even seen the Lady Nienor, though from what little he had heard of her she was as wise, despite her years, as her elder brothers, and as widely read. He listened to Faramir talk of her with warm affection, speaking of her prowess in whatsoever she put her mind to, her wit, her humor, her boldness, her fierce resolve to know all that there was to know about the world in which she lived. He spoke of how much she resembled their mother, even more so than he did himself, and of how very lovely she was even at her young age, and how beautiful she would be, so soon.

Gandalf found himself wishing, more than ever, that he might be permitted to meet with the only daughter of Denethor; if even half of what Faramir said of her was true and if she resembled her elder brothers so greatly, then Nienor was certain to grow into a glorious woman indeed.

Faramir's face was alight with happiness, however reserved, for the duration of his news, but when he had nothing more to tell of sadness began to leech into his eyes and the set of his mouth and he stared listlessly into the fire.

"Faramir?" Gandalf ventured to ask. "What is it that troubles you?"

"Truth be told, Mithrandir," the young man replied, hardly raising his eyes from the fire, "We, both of her brothers, worry for our sister. For many days she has been sad and listless, though for that I cannot blame her."

"And what is the cause of this sudden malady?"

Faramir shook his head ruefully. "What else can the cause be, other than the manner in which she is required to live? She is no longer a child in the reckoning of my people, and though by the laws of the citadel she is not permitted to wed until she reaches twenty years of age, the Lord Denethor has long considered the prospects of her marriage. And marriage is a thought that she truly cannot bear." Glumly he kicked some cinders back into the fire, and sighed as he watched them disappear into the burning whole of the flame.

"She has told you as such?" Gandalf asked, troubled for the state of mind of his erstwhile pupil, and concerned on the part of the maiden he had never met but still admired.

"No, she says little or nothing of what is certain to come in but a few years. But silences can speak more readily than words, Mithrandir, as I am sure that you know well. And I know that she resents our father deeply for wishing to be rid of her, though there has never truly been any great love between them. It pains both my brother and I to see our family so divided, and our sister so wretched, but there is little or nothing that we might do for her." Faramir now looked out at the icicles that formed the falls that usually roared outside, falling across the openings in the cave walls like panes of glass in windows. "Save to find ways to cheer her heart, if only a little."

"And how do you plan to perform such a deed?" Gandalf asked, settling back in his seat and feeling in his robes for his pipe and pipeweed, noting with displeasure that he had nearly run through the stock he had brought from the Shire. One or two more nights and then he would have to go without until he returned to the North. If only the South had learned to cultivate pipeweed, what a blessing they then would surely find!

"I know at least how to entertain her when I return to the city in some days' time," Farmir replied, watching with interest as he pushed some of the pipeweed into the bowl of the pipe set a spark to it, "for she asked me to bring her back a story of what had happened to me in my time in Ithilien." The young man smiled at him again, widely. "I would say that the story of the return of a long-lost tutor is enough to marvel at!"

"Oh, come now!" Gandalf protested more cheerfully, as he sucked in a breath of smoke and blew a ring. "I have far more interesting tales than that – that is, if you would be willing to listen?" he added, as he blew out another ring to travel straight through the first one.

It was easy now to believe from a single look at Faramir's face that he was not only the son of his mother, but also the little boy who had sat surrounded by books, smiling up at the wizard from the north and eager for stories. "If you have tales to tell me, Mithrandir, I have no objection to hearing them."

And so for much of the night the wizard and the man who had been the boy who had been his pupil sat by the fire and talked and listened to each other, speaking of tales set in ages past, letting Sindarin and Adûnaic and even occasionally Quenya pass through their lips, for they were fluent in all three languages and many more. They forgot for a time the burdens lying upon them, the threat of the unknown in the mind of one, the burden of a loveless father and a waning sister on the part of the other.

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"_He is back! He is back, Nienor! Hurry, he's just come up to this level!"_

_He is back._

_He is back!_

_So very long I have waited for this day, the day when Faramir comes back to us. My eagerness is such that it is enough to wake me out of the mournful dreams that have been my lot when Boromir bounds in during my music lesson to yell the news joyously, and leave my teacher shocked like a ruffled, plucked hen in our wake._

_He is back! We are all together again!_

_How we run down the flight of stairs and through the passages, leaving baffled servants behind us! It is easier for Boromir, for he does not have to hold such heavy skirts out of the way for him to run, nor find so much trouble to breath with such a tightly laced dress. All he has is a surcoat, which I would happily have instead of my own cumbersome burden. Eru and Valar together, when I became a woman I never dreamed that it would be so hard to dress like one! The still strange weight of my costume throws me off balance as we stampede out onto the stones outside the Great Hall, and Boromir must catch hold of me lest I fall onto the ground, as no true daughter of Denethor should._

_He is here already. Both of them, our dear brother and our father. Father stands on a step above Faramir, he is speaking to him. He looks quite pleased in the light of the early sun, or as pleased as he will ever look in Faramir's presence. _

_I would prefer to wait until he is gone, for I have no wish to speak to him. And why should I? That he dares – _

_-but Boromir already drags me towards the two of them, shouting his greetings. _

_And when they both turn to see us, partly to spite the one and partly because I have so missed the other, I make a rush forward and throw my arms around Faramir's neck. He throws his arms about me in turn and truly, he lifts me up off my feet. I squeal in delight, as I have hardly done for so long, and I kick my feet. It is good to feel the sun and the air upon them, after so long. It is good to have my arms around Faramir, and to feel his arms about me. It is good to smell him again, musky and spicy in my nose, though overlaid with sweat and leather._

_It is good. It is all good._

"_Ai, little sister!" he says, placing down, to my regret. "I see you have missed me as much as I have missed you." His eyes are shining. They will not shine for long, here in the city where all will turn to dust in time, but it is a joy to see them shine now. I smile and speak my first words to him._

"_Did you bring me back any stories?" _

_It is the request of a child, but it is important to me, for I need stories to help me to forget the baseness of my life, stories from my brothers, stories from outside the city. If they are stories of happiness, so much the better. If they are stories of sorrow, then at least it will be good to hear of someone, however mythical, who fares worse than I do._

_But I must not think of such things now, not when my brother is back! And my heart dances when he smiles. "Oh, sister, indeed I have. I have such stories for you!"_

"_What is this of stories?" _

_Leave us alone, Father. You have no right in this. Leave us to ourselves. You have greeted him, he has given you his report, that is surely all you want of him?_

_But already the smile is fading from Faramir's face, as he turn to look at him once more, a comforting hand still on my shoulder. "I told you of the meeting in Ithilien with Mithrandir, Father…"_

_I hardly hear what else he says, for envy has blossomed in my stomach like fire. _Mithrandir? _The Grey Wizard? Faramir has met with him, talked with him, more than _once?_ Oh, some have all the luck and those ones are always men! _

"_He gave you stories, for me?" I ask, and I do not let my poison show. To sting my brother would be to rot away his love, and that would surely kill me. "Oh, Faramir, you are _so_ lucky!"_

"_You met the Grey Pilgrim?" Boromir is just as excited. "Tell me, Faramir, is he the same as always? Has he changed? Nienor is right; we are both lucky, for she has never met him! If only he should come here-"_

_I meet Father's eye, and know at once that he will doom this. Simply because it is in his power to do so._

"_That he shall not." All of us look at Father now. Whatever sunlight there was in his face is now gone. His face is shadowed, like the clouds over Mordor. He is angry, but he does not show it. But I know. He is angry at Faramir and at me, and even at Boromir. He is angry at us all. _

"_But Father…" Boromir begins, in earnest. He does not see our father's rage, as both Faramir and I do. He does not know what is in front of him._

"_Mithrandir will not come here, my son." There is ice wind in Father's voice. Something is crawling up through his throat, like a rat worming out of its hole. It is not just anger. It is fury._

_He will deny us even this. Even _this.

_And I hate him for it._

_I watch him, we all watch him, even Boromir cowed into silence now, as he forces the rat back downs and stops up its hole, before smiling again. His smile is sickness. _

"_Tell her your stories, if you must, Faramir. But make no mention of the Istari in this citadel." And he goes, without a word of goodbye for any of us. He sweeps away, as do dark storm clouds that will return to soak and chill and kill._

_Faramir's smile is quite gone, now. He looks at the both of us. I look back._

_I do not know what to say._

_I despise not knowing what to say._

_It is Boromir who is the first to speak. "You should not go back to your lesson, Nienor," he says and claps me on the shoulder. "Come, we shall go to the library and be at peace, and Faramir can tell us his news, and tell you his stories."_

_I nod, though I cannot find a reply, and I slide my left arm through Faramir's and my right arm through Boromir's and we set off together, towards the library. Our steps sound in silence, but by now it is I who chooses to speak._

"_Was it very cold in Ithilien, Faramir?" For it is cold here in Minas Tirith in winter, but at least we have walls and tapestries to keep out the chill from our bodies, if not from our hearts._

"_Very," he replies. "The falls were very icicles, and our breath seemed to turn to ice."_

_I shiver at the idea of this, at the thought of something coming from a warm body and turning at once to harsh, cold ice. From life to freezing death, in one heartbeat. Strangely, it is terrifying and yet exhilarating. It is the same when ice turns to water. Something solid becomes something liquid. A body returns to the water it came from._

_Faramir speaks again, now, and I must struggle to hear what he says. _

_It is this: "Has something come to pass that I do not know of? For Father seemed more troubled than is his custom, and yet…there is something in his heart that satisfies him, I deem. Do either of you know what it is?"_

_Only the pace of my brothers keeps me from halting in my tracks. As it is I am dragged a few paces, which surprises Faramir, but not Boromir so much. We share a look, we two, and as I walk on I look away from him, which gives him the task of explaining._

_It is too much for me._

_He takes it up bravely. "Father believes that he might be able to make a marriage alliance. For Nienor."_

"_An alliance?" Faramir is surprised, and now he is the one who stops. Since he is not a weak little girl he is not pulled along but halts his siblings as well, and we stand in the passage way together. "With whom?"_

"_Rohan, I believe." Boromir speaks over my head, for I will not meet their eyes, indeed not Faramir's. I could not bear to see his shock. "Théoden's son, Théodred, is four and twenty years of age, and is of course heir to the throne." Boromir tries to laugh, though he manages to force but little humor into his voice. "Nienor would be the queen of Rohan, when he came to power."_

_Queen of Rohan. Queen of a land far, far away from this city. Queen where there are no walls and pinnacles and turrets of stone. Queen where there are fresh winds and fresh air. Queen where there are green fields, and mountains, and horses. Queen of a country without my father._

_Queen of a country without letters. Queen of a country without books. Queen of a country without freedom. Queen of a country without my brothers._

_Queen of a country without my father._

_The thought of it chokes me, and so I find it in me to speak out. "I do not wish to be a queen. And I do not wish to go to Rohan."_

"_Why, little sister?" Faramir's words are gentle, but they are still barbed. They dig into my flesh. I wince._

"_There are few books in Rohan." I sound as if I am pleading. "And I do not like horses."_

_Faramir's arms come to rest upon my shoulders, and I find myself looking up into his eyes, grey and gentle and wise, and yet ignorant. "What do you wish for, then, Nienor?"_

_I must be honest. "I do not know."_

"_You do not know?" Boromir is disbelieving. "You have voiced your disapproval of this match again and again, and yet you do not know what you want?"_

_No, Boromir. I do not know what I want. Should I? Should I know what I want in my marriage? Should I want marriage? Should I want anything? Because no choice is given to me, I do not know. _

_That is what I wish to say. But, Eru, Maiar, Valar help me, I cannot say it. It sticks in my throat as a lump. I feel as if I wish to scream._

_Or to cry._

"_Nienor?" Faramir and Boromir's faces close in on me._

_They do not know._

_They can never know._

"_Forgive me." I break away from Faramir's grasp, and skip further out of my reach. "Faramir, I am sorry, I…"_

"_Nienor?"_

_I am a coward. I turn and run, back the way we have come._

"_Nienor!" _

"_Leave me be!" I shout. When I truly wish to run, then I can fly. The footsteps soon fade away behind me, but my brothers' cries live on in my ears._

_I stop on another flight of stairs, when I know I am safe. _

_And I cry._

_I cry because I have upset Faramir, who was saving up all the stories he heard to tell me, because I asked him so desperately._

_I cry because I ran away from Boromir, who has done nothing but try to comfort me since we heard the rumors through the court._

_I cry because Father believes that this is what is best for me, and will follow it through to the end._

_I cry because I truly do not know what I want. I do not know what I want because I can have nothing that I want._

_It's been spoiled. It's all been spoiled. Everything has been spoiled, spoiled beyond remedy or repair._

**

* * *

I know that Nienor does seem a bit 'emo-ish', but rest assured, she's not like this _all_**** the time. Most of the time she's quite calm and collected and even slightly humorous, though you haven't had a chance to see much of that yet. It's just that she sometimes gets what I lovingly refer to as 'black-spots', where nothing seems to be right and everything makes you want to burst into tears or go to sleep and never wake up; plus she's going through a rather cruddy stage in her life – and I'm not talking about puberty.**

**I am trying to work more of Faramir and Boromir's points of view into this, because we don't want the first part of this to be all about Nienor. Thus I am trying to portray events in their lives that don't involve Nienor at the centre of them. The trouble is that nothing really interesting (relatively speaking) happens to them until orcs start trying to get hold of Osgiliath in the canon, so I have to make stuff up. And since Nienor is **_**my**_

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	10. 3004 I

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything from the Lord of the Rings**

**Sorry for taking so long. University is a dog of the female gender.**

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**_3004_**

Twice in the measured year the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, would be seated in his chair in the vast echoing great hall of the citadel at first light. He would hold his staff of office close in his right hand, and with his left he would grasp the arm of his chair, to show that he still had a firm root in the governing of the city and the realm. And when the sun was only a little higher in her journey across the sky, the doors to the great hall would open, and across the cold floor and past the statues of long dead kings would come living lords, summoned in their duty to advise the caretaker of the empty throne at the far end of the room.

Around his dark chair they would stand or sit, according to their age and importance, and throughout the long day they would discuss with him the affairs not only of the city but of the whole land in which they lived and were responsible for. In elder days members of the Council of Gondor needs must ascend the stone steps one at a time to speak their case to the one who sat at the summit of that flight of marble, crowned by a tree and a stone helm; but time had ensured that now all they needed to approach the Steward was for him to hold out his staff of office to invite them forward. All, regardless of their age, had an equal say, for their position meant that they would never be forced to relinquish their influence until death came for them, as it did even to these descendants of the city that had sunk beneath the waves and to the house of Hurin.

Reports came in, always, from every corner of the realm of Gondor and from Minas Tirith itself. In the city there would be prices and the value of coin to be agreed, the attainment of supplies, the many discrepancies and occurrences at the many gates, the cases in the various law courts of the various tiers, the welfare of the people that lived within the city walls, the full brunt of running a city sevenfold. And then there was the land that lay beyond the walls of the White City that was Gondor, concerning harvests and famines, plagues, trading stocks, the condition of livestock and of the borders and guards upon the plains, the welfare of a people far beyond the capacity of even a city such as Minas Tirith. All aspects of life in Gondor were covered for much of a day as decisions were reached and goals decided upon, as threats were deemed important or otherwise, as the chances of the land were broken down and built up once more in an ever more complex game that the Stewards and the Kings had played before them, a game which they had rarely lost.

In the midst of grave men coming to and fro, waiting to give their notice or their opinion, Denethor would give his verdict and his word, in the absence of a long-lost king, was law. The realm of Gondor was divided and shrunken into piles of parchment and placed into the hands of the few who had say in what would happen to it in the future, handled with such casual movements as if it were some meaningless scribbles, instead of the land itself translated by pen and ink.

All of this was quite familiar to Boromir, who stood behind his father's chair as he had often done before and watched each fresh discussion with growing awareness of his own impatience with the whole matter. For all of his life the eldest son of Denethor had been trained and instructed by family and stranger alike for the time that he would sit in his father's seat instead of the present Steward, and yet now that he was faced again and again with what he must one day endure he found it very dull fare indeed, and at times even agonizing. His nature was quite different from that of his brother and his sister, as all three of them and possibly more knew well, and he was not at all suited to remaining closed inside a shadowy room throughout the day when the sunlight beckoned outside and there were other, more practical things to be done than listen to tedious reports and the babbling of old men.

He could think that with safety, for of all the men standing or seated around his father now, there was not one who was a day under forty-five at the least, and with the impetuous nature of a young man of twenty-four that seemed ancient to the spirited eldest son. Boromir had spent many years of his boyhood and growth listening to the chatter of aged men in various chambers of the citadel, and it irked him to know that he had not escaped such trials by reaching adulthood.

It irked him too to know that they would remain with them for as long as he lived, a constant circle of dark robes and silvered hair demanding his attendance and the wisdom that he might not have.

He forced his attention back to the present as yet another councilor stepped forward and began to read in a voice that crackled with old age like old parchment, of a trade dispute with Haradrim merchants on the borders of Gondor that kept peace with the land.

"A subject for the council of the borders," Denethor said dryly, cutting the old man, Mardil Boromir thought his name was, off near the end of his speech. "We must deal with such threats to the peace with all speed. Enough of this, you may retire."

But Mardil remained where he was, his rheumy eyes hard. "With respect, Lord Denethor, this is not merely a chance the merchants find to disturb the peace – this is a true crisis. The Haradrim…"

"The Haradrim lie beyond our borders, and so any move they make could be seen as a threat towards Gondor," the Steward retorted, holding up his hand to still Mardil's words. "You have said your piece, Mardil. Now, retire."

Silence followed his words that echoed through the hall, as the councilor retreated to join the circle, his lips, or what was visible of them, set in a firm line. There was some hesitation before the next man stepped forward, bearing his news, and the quiet way in which he spoke showed his disapproval even if he himself was not aware of it.

Such words in such a tone infuriated Boromir. Denethor held power in Gondor, so why was it that his will was so contested? Why should he find restriction whichever way he turned? If the Steward was the Lord of the city and the land, why should the lords of the fiefdoms hold him back? But he said nothing, as was expected of him, and looked over the heads of the various lords to the door at the end of the hall. The blinding white stone of the bastion, shining in the sunlight, gleamed beckoningly at him and he quickly smothered a sigh. Faramir was out there somewhere in that sunshine, most probably running through a drill practice. If only they might exchange places! Faramir was far more suited to being his father's heir than he himself was, though for all that he had done in his twenty four years he had never quite dared to say such a thing to anyone, least of all Denethor himself. Though the Steward loved him the most out of his children and well all the three of them knew it, it did not therefore mean that he was prepared to brook argument on Boromir's part.

Dimly he was aware that Rohan was being spoken of now, by his uncle Imrahil, and with certain trepidation. Agreements with that country that had been hoped for had fallen through badly, and now to speak of the horse lords warmly was no password to Denethor's favor. But he tried not to think of such matters that were done with, and the discussion quickly moved on to other things that the Steward was more willing to speak of, such as the placements of markets within or without the city, and the debate of whether continual admittance of strangers from different nations should be condoned.

As the time wore on his mind began to wander, as it inevitably did, thinking of all the times that he had stood here behind his father's chair, from when he had barely left childhood behind him and his eyes were still wet with unshed tears for Mother. The very first time he had been excited and his still raw grief had been dispelled in his joy, he remembered it well; but his joy had waned as the day had worn on and, more than once, his attendant was forced to reprimand him for moving out of turn and even sighing on occasion. His father had taxed him heavily that evening, though not too greatly, for he could never remain angry for long at his eldest son.

And so the years spent here, above all else, had trimmed him of his need to fidget or express his dissatisfaction where it might be heard, in Council or in the citadel beyond the hall. Perhaps Father thought that these lessons stretched to the world beyond this echoing marble, but in truth he never felt more desire to yell with joy than when he stepped out from the shadow of that dark stone seat and into the light of the blessed sun once more.

Now it was clear that they were at last nearing the end of the Council, for he could see that the sun was waning in the sky and the talk had turned to the methods behind the celebrations that would soon begin in Minas Tirith, in the high summer, how the affair should be carried out. Fortune was with Denethor, as for once none spoke against his decisions, though truly it was because they had no right to do so in this one instance. Boromir did his best to think of other things, to help him through the last of this day; he chose to dream instead of listen to all that had come so many times before. He thought of the celebration of Faramir's twentieth birthday but a week ago; how he and Faramir had had a shooting match between the two of them, with many of the residents of the top tiers watching. Memories of physical prowess kept Boromir sane when he was required not to move from the spot for many hours, imagining his arms and legs moving and fighting instead of his mind struggling to come to grips with things he still could not fully comprehend.

And then, naturally, he thought of what had followed the match, when he had let Faramir win and managed not to betray the fact that he had done so, for his younger brother was very proud when it came to his marksmanship. Nienor had deemed her younger brother worthy of her present; a birthday kiss – which had certainly made the watching crowds roar with approval – and the embroidered pair of velvet gloves which she herself had fashioned. Some had laughed, thinking it a joke amongst siblings, and others had sniffed at the apparent tawdriness of the gift, while still others, their father the Lord Denethor among them, had cast suspicious glances upon Nienor, perhaps thinking that the present was in fact a thinly disguised insult. Boromir let himself smile, if only a little, at that memory. Both he and his brother had known the real meaning of the gift, and knew it now. They knew that while Nienor despised sewing and embroidery, she had chosen to present Faramir with a gift that fully showed her love for him. It surely must have taken many days for her to have sewn the gloves together from scraps of velvet, and painstakingly embroider many white stars upon the back of each.

The sound of footsteps roused his from his contemplation, and he came back to himself in time to see the councillors finally moving away from where he stood and where his father sat, their robes sweeping the floor and their attendants carrying various scrolls of vellum and parchment for them. Already they were retreating to the sunlight which caused them to squint, and would hurry along to their shadowy chambers. Not for him, for he preferred the sun in all her beauty! But for now he would stay by his father's side, until he was released to consider what he had heard this day, and to pray to whichever of the Valar that happened to be listening that he was not called to listen to the council again in three days time.

"You were displeased with Mardil, my son," Denethor said calmly, once both councillors and attendants were gone and the hall rang with the sound of his voice alone.

"How could you tell, Father?" His lessons had been learned well, and he had not even made one sound, as he had when he was young, to show his discontent. What then had betrayed him in his perch behind his father?

There was a soft laugh from the Steward, as he gestured for Boromir to step out from behind his chair and stand in front of him. "I do not need to see your face to tell your mood, Boromir," he chided, "and it was clear to me that my councilor's words held little favor with you. Tell me, did his opinion cause you offence?"

Boromir, who knew that Denethor was eager to know his own views in preparation for the time when the son would take the father's place, was required to answer, though he doubted that his words would be to his father's liking. "Not so much his words, Father, but simply that he spoke against you. Must you constantly be hampered by such men, who find fault in your every thought and deed?"

As he had feared, Denethor looked at him quietly without saying a word. This was often the way he showed disapproval of his eldest son, when he did show it, and this was because that eldest son could not endure such silence and such a gaze for long. Faramir and Nienor were a different matter; they were more equal to their father's stare, and so he must admonish them with words instead.

"I am sorry, Father," he said, quickly dropping his eyes. "It is just that…I believe that these councilors sometimes bar you, instead of aiding you. Why do you stand them?"

Denethor continued to gaze at him, though his stare had softened somewhat in the wake of his son's admission. At last he rose from his seat. "And what would you have me do, Boromir? If I did not allow the lords of the citadel and of the land to give me counsel, would they be content? I think not. They might plot; certainly they would begrudge me my power. By listening to what they have to say, I give them assurance that they have some influence upon my decisions, if only a very little. And though many of them are old, do not think that they are not wise, or that they do not show themselves to be of use."

"I know, Father. But surely the Steward's power should not be impeded?"

Again Denethor looked closely at him, but this time he was smiling, if ruefully. "Once again we come to this, Boromir. Strange that you should hold on to this idea, through so many years."

"Father," he began at once, alarmed, "forgive me, but I did not mean…"

"You look upon the power of the Steward, and think only of the power of the King," Denethor chided him gently. "You should know by now that such thoughts are meaningless. I rule Gondor, and in time you will rule it as well. What does it matter if we do not wear crowns or sit on a white throne with a canopy above our heads; if we sit instead in a low dark chair and carry only a rod as our symbol of office? The line of Kings is gone, and only we remain. There is no difference now between the office of King and the office of Steward."

Boromir bowed his head in assent as a dutiful son should, but behind a face which with training betrayed nothing he thought very differently from his father. He knew, in some strange way that had never been understood or even explained to him, that a Steward _was_ different from a King, the King, that there was a great deal of difference between the two; and it was that difference that cast him, and Father, and Faramir and Nienor, all in the shadow of that empty white throne under the stone helm and the carved tree. He could still recall the question he had asked when he was perhaps fifteen years of age and their father had looked in upon the lesson that the brothers and even the sister had shared, and the Steward's reply.

_"How many hundreds of years __needs__ it to make a steward king, if the king returns not?"_

_"Few years, maybe, in other places of royalty.__ In __Gondor__ ten thousand years would not suffice."_

"Come," the Steward said now, placing his hand upon his son's shoulder, "walk with me. There is more to speak of than was heard in the Council, and of more importance as well." And Denethor set off towards the doors of the great hall in his turn and his son made haste to follow him, for though he was now older than seventy he still moved with the speed of a man far younger. As they entered from the darkness into the light the shadow seemed still to cling upon their garments and spangle in stands of their hair, hardly banished even by the sunlight. The sunlight burned upon Boromir's face in welcome but at the edge of his vision, greater than the darkness in the corners of the eyes, was the shadow which would not depart even with the passing of a fever or the healing of a wound.

Away from the great hall they walked, side by side and much the same height, the white rod held by the elder occasionally tapping against the stone of the bastion that came to meet it in greeting. They spoke of simple things, of things that were, to them, safe. Of Rohan they did not speak, nor of the festivities that would soon begin in the citadel and the tiers below, nor of the one for whom they would be held in honour of. Boromir hardly knew any more of what he was speaking of, so used was he to such discussions with his father; he hardly even noticed where they paced until the man beside him halted quite suddenly.

"Boromir."

"Father?" he asked quickly, wondering what he could have done to make Denethor speak in such a way. But at once he noticed that Denethor looked not at his face but at his belt; bemused he looked down at his waist himself, but understanding suddenly blossomed. He could not help taking a step back from the Steward, wondering what to say, how to explain the absence of something that should hang from his belt.

"Boromir," his father said again, "why do you not carry the horn? And why do you persist in disdaining to carry it?"

His mouth was dry as he sought for speech. He was the Steward's Heir, a Captain of the White Tower, the darling of the citadel and of Gondor. Nothing was out of place, save his terrible reluctance for the role that had been provided for him. Much of his time was spent in armor rather than the costume of the court; he avoided the smiles and simpers of those women who admired him as if their very touch would burn; the Horn of Gondor, that horn which every eldest son of the Steward bore and should wear with pride, had been buried in a chest under many robes almost since the day he received it, nearly a year before now. The most that he could do was to wear it only when he left the city. The weight of it, both on his body and his mind, unbalanced him. He hated the burden that reminded him of his duty; not of that towards his city, for that he accepted willingly, but his duty towards his heritage.

But how could he tell this to his father, the man who showed and felt more love for him than for his brother and sister combined, who had placed all of his many hopes upon his shoulders? How could he speak of his own disdain for his future and thus lose his own pride? The fate of the city and of the land and of the people that he so dearly loved could not be placed in peril, simply because he faltered at the prospect of one day leading it.

"I do not disdain it, Father," he replied glibly, doing his best not to let his hand go at once to where the horn should hang. "I simply choose not to wear it in the citadel, or in the city, for all here know who I am and I need not announce my role as your eldest child, heir to the Stewardship." He was glad to see calm return to Denethor's face, though pleasure was still missing from it.

"Boromir," he said softly, reaching forward and placing his hand upon his son's shoulder, "do not think that you should not wear your symbol of authority, simply because you are well known within your home. You are the eldest son, and the horn is your birthright. Do not merely accept it, but rejoice in it!"

It was all that he could do not to choke at those words, or to flinch from Denethor's fingers. He smiled at the man who leeched the warmth from him and wanted to run, run far away. He wanted to run from his father's desire to give Gondor the Steward that he himself could not have been. He wanted to run from being chained to the dark stone chair at the foot of the steps by robes of office. He wanted to run from this cruel trick that the Valar had played upon he and Faramir, by decreeing that he should be born first and his brother second.

But all he did was smile and put his own hand upon his father's. "Then my horn shall sing out at Nienor's betrothal, Father, I promise. And whenever I leave Gondor, I will sound it as a sign to our foes." And he smiled at the joy upon his father's face, for to do anything else would be a knife to Denethor's heart

He escaped soon afterwards, when Imrahil happened upon them in the gathering dusk and he was at last permitted to depart, to let his father and his uncle speak. He did not meet Imrahil's eye though he knew that the prince of Dol Amroth looked cautiously at him and would have made him stay.

He walked to the practice grounds, and he found Faramir still there in the half light, seated upon one of the benches that were often dragged into that courtyard to rest the blunted practice weapons upon. They needed to say little to each other, but each rested their hand upon the shoulder of the other before they wished each other a good night's sleep. Boromir knew that Faramir was envious, however slightly, of being held in such high regard as to stand behind their father in the council chamber. Faramir could not know the truth.

"What was it like? The Council?" Faramir asked, in the moments before they parted.

"The same as ever, little brother. Gondor is at peace, and Father is pleased."

He walked to Nienor's chambers in order to bid her goodnight, as he had done whenever he was in the city ever since she could understand his words, but this evening her ladies told him that she had retired earlier in the day and had no wish to be disturbed, not even by her kin. The broad expanse of her closed door rejected him, and whatever comfort he might have longed for or been willing to give was not welcome. He bade the women tell Nienor that he had come by, even if she had not been there to receive him, and they dutifully agreed that they would.

And then, at last, he all but ran to his chambers, and he locked the door behind him, barring out the rest of the citadel. Only then did he allow himself to put his hands to his temples and moan softly; his legs might have slipped from under him if he had not made his way to a seat and collapsed into it. He could not allow any other to see him in such a way, not even Faramir and dear Nienor. They must never know what I go through, each day. They would never know.

"Valar help me," he muttered into the stillness of the empty room and the growing dark, for without any candles the light within the walls was fading quickly. "Valar help me, for no other can. I would not be the Steward. I would ride out to battle and defend Gondor's borders and her honor, for all the days of my life, but I would not sit in that hall and bear that rod. Not unless…"

But he could not think that. It could not be, not in ten thousand years.

_

* * *

__I stare up at the drapes of my bed. My maids have called through my closed door that Boromir__ came to see me. Perhaps if I had known I might have roused myself to meet him, but truly it means little to me._ _My brother has his own fears to fight with, and I have mine. It is not in my power to help him, nor in his to help me._

_How strange it is! Each of the Steward's children is caught, in their own way. I know full well how I am caught, but my brothers are trapped just as I. __Faramir__ is held fast by his desire for our father's love and approval. __Boromir__…I do not know how __Boromir__ is trapped, but I know that he is._ _His eyes are those of one who is captive, bound by what I cannot tell._

_I know what I am bound by, and what will bind me in a month's time. I know that my mother's betrothal ring, taken from her finger at her death and saved for her only daughter, will betroth me to a young lord from the city of __Pelargir__, in __Lebennin__. How clever my father is! In that fiefdom a maiden does not need to be twenty years of age to wed. In Minas __Tirith__ we will be betrothed, and then we will go to __Pelargir__ and we will be wed in the city of many ships. How happy I should be! How happy! No one in the world should be __more happy__ than I!_

_If I hated him for nothing else, I would hate him for this. He has taken the time that I thought I would have away from me. He will take my brothers away from me. He has deceived me. He has tricked me. I trusted him in this. I did not think that he would let me choose my fate, but I trusted him to let me have the time I wanted. He _knew_ I wanted that time, and he has calmly betrayed me, his only daughter. That is worse than this marriage. __That hurts more than it will most likely hurt when I am impaled by my new husband in the marriage bed._

_What will I do now? What will I do? Truly it is not the marriage that I fear; it is what will come after it…if anything will come after it. I can see my betrothal, I can see myself riding into the city of ships, __I__ can see myself speaking the words that bind me to that…that boy. I can even imagine the wedding night. My brothers think that I am innocent, but I am not. But after that, I can think of nothing. That is what I fear; the darkness beyond what I dream. It is deeper than the shadows of my room. It is nothing. __Truly nothing.__ It is frightening in a manner I can hardly think of. It is the darkness at the corner of my __sight, that__ will pass over my eye and render me blind. _

_When I was younger – when I was a child - I had dreams of being trapped somewhere, I knew not where, only that it was dark and I was afraid, with Father and __Boromir__ and __Faramir__ standing far away. The darkness pressed in on me and I screamed and yelled for my father and my brothers to come and help me, to save me from being crushed. But no matter how hard I cried they did not come to help me, they did not turn around or even appear to notice me as I slowly drowned, so far away from them. _

_Long ago, this was only confined to my dreams. But now, it is becoming true. Though my father and brothers stand so close to me, they cannot see my __plight,__ they will not stretch out a hand and pull me back from the brink. How else can this be, that they will let me founder and sink beyond sight? Yet I know why my father does. I know it all too well. To keep up the name of the city he will sacrifice me to tradition, and my brothers are blinded by the very glory of this whole city, so that they cannot see their own flesh and blood._

_Damn him, I was happy. I was becoming happy, at last. I had books, I had command. The maids listen to me, and the ladies, they do as I say. They no longer make life hard for me. I was happy. It is a fine thing, to be happy. And he has snatched it away. Will I ever be happy again, far from the gaze of my brothers?_

_Valar__Eru__, whoever hears me: do not let this wedding happen. Do not let me share this man's bed, or bear his children. Do not let me be sent into the darkness, for I could not survive, I would be crushed. I want to stay in the light, with my brothers. I want to be happy. _

_Is it so wrong, __Valar__, for me to be happy?_

**

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****Boromir is a bit OOC here, but considering that this is an AU, perhaps that shouldn't be so surprising. I think he is rather like the Aragorn of the films – he knows he's expected to become something, but he doesn't want to do that, he wants to do his own thing. ****Sort of a rebellious teenager, even though he's now twenty-four.**** I always feel sorry for people who inevitably have a certain role in life; part of the fun of life is making choices for yourself, not knowing what you might become. This is why inheriting a throne or a big business sucks.**

**So, ****Boromir**** doesn't want to be the Steward, hands down. What he wants, though even he doesn't know it yet, is something far more****…**

**Not much ****Nienor**** in this. It's pretty obvious already what's been happening to her, and we really don't want to go through all the moaning she's doing about her current situation. Let us just say, for the benefit of all, that she is not a happy bunny.**

**Pelargir is a 'real place' in Gondor. It's famous for having lots of ships and being attacked a lot by hoards of Mordor, so it's a dubious place to live in. Some kinslaying also took place there, apparently, with the grandsons o Castamir, a rebel, killing King Minardil. Has anyone noticed that kinslayings and strifes always seem to take place near boats?**

**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	11. 3004 II

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from LOTR.**

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The ships from Pelargir had been sighted at dawn, and the family of the Steward had set out at midday, the Lord Denethor and the Lady Nienor riding side by side, and her brothers riding after them and after that lords and ladies of the court, flanked by mounted guards and all dressed in their most wonderful finery. There had not been aprocession like this since the Lady Finduilas had ridden into the White City and all the way up to the citadel to be married to the Lord Denethor, close on thirty years ago now; and it seemed only right that it was in honour of the lady's daughter on the day of her own betrothal. The people of Minas Tirith had lined the streets to wave and cheer at their first and last sight of the Steward's only girl child even as she left them, perhaps never to return.

Denethor was pleased to find that he could still sit in the saddle as easily as in his youth, despite his change in costume since those far-off days. Of course he knew that no one would take note of the Steward, for once, and little notice even of his sons as they smiled at their people. All three of them were known by sight to much of the city, but there were few or none beyond the citadel who could truthfully lay claim to having seen the face of Nienor, and for once all eyes would be upon her as she sat upon the back of her elegant white palfrey, her dress the colour of cornflowers and the sky above her and her hair pinned with matching blossoms, her mother's betrothal ring shining upon her finger, the opal set into silver gleaming in the light of the sun.

The procession made its way down from the citadel in relative quiet. While many cheered and called blessings to her, there were many, many more who whispered to each other – not in spite, but in wonder and admiration. He could hear many of them and perhaps they knew it, as they murmured that she was the very image of the Lady Finduilas, her mother to life. They stared at her closely and unabashedly, taking in her slender frame and the sheen of her dark hair, the paleness of her skin and most of all her face, the face that was whispered over and made the subject of the rumor that rushed through the streets ahead of them.

He could see, riding beside his daughter and leading her by her horse's bridle – for she hardly knew how to ride her steed properly, or direct it, a grievous oversight in her lessons - that for her part she stared back at the people with curiosity bordering on hunger, as if she would devour each face that she saw whole. Her lips had parted slightly, a sure sign of her interest in the matter, and her eyes were wide. For the first time since her betrothal had been announced there seemed to be life anew in her as she watched the citizens of Minas Tirith watching her in their turn, and the change was enough to make him catch his breath. Whatever the people might say, the only times he believed that his daughter truly resembled his wife was when her eyes, dark as they were and nothing like those of Finduilas, kindled with excitement and set fire to the rest of her face.

However, the people were soon no longer content to simply watch her. On the fifth tier of the city, Denethor was startled out of his thoughts when one of the many women holding bunches of flowers stepped forward into the path of their horses, blocking the way. At once his hand went to his own sword, and the mounted guards were ready to leap off their steeds, but the woman simply walked to Nienor's side and held out her posy of flowers, tied with bright ribbon.

"For you, on the day of your betrothal, my lady," was her sweet explanation.

His eyes went back to Nienor, wishing to see her reaction to such words. Knowing her as he did, it was surprising to see how very quickly and readily she smiled, and how she reached out her long-fingered hand to receive the posy, and to hear the gentle tone of her words - "I thank you greatly for your kind gift," – and to see her tuck the posy into the sash about her small waist. The people certainly saw, and they liked what they saw greatly, and so as they continued down the street once the woman had meekly stepped out of the way more women and some children stepped out to hand her bunches of flowers, flowers wild and grown in the city. Soon some of the guards were obliged to dismount and walk before the Steward and his daughter, clearing the way so that the procession might go onwards and not stop time and time again. Boys and girls sitting on the shoulders of their fathers tore handfuls of petals from their own posies and threw them into the air before Nienor, and she actually _laughed_ as they landed upon her hair and cheeks and shoulders. Now it truly was as if his wife rode beside him. Her laugh was certainly that of her mother, though there were few enough times that it was heard.

But there was also slyness behind her smiles, despite her enjoyment, as she looked around from one side of the street to the other. Her eyes met his for an instant, and he could read joy in them all too well. Much of it was sincere, but there was also a secret delight, that perhaps she wanted him to realise. _See? I am loved. They do not even know me, but they love me more than they love you._ _They love me more than _you _love me._

He batted a petal away from his dark sleeve, looking away from his daughter and hearing his wife laugh once more, a laugh stretching across the years. If such were Nienor's thoughts, he was not surprised, for he was in part responsible for them. Since the very day that she had become a woman he had watched his daughter blossom, with the avidity of a man who tends a garden and grows a beautiful tree, with the hope that it would spread deep roots and wide branches, and stand against any tempest that might howl against it. And he, as the gardener, had come to admire the tree as he had never admired nor treasured the sapling.

How surprised the people would be, in the city and the citadel alike, if they knew the truth – that Denethor did not hate his daughter but loved her, as much as he was able to love the one who had cost his beloved her life. Perhaps he had not always loved her, perhaps in her first years he had hated her – but as she had grown and as he directed her growth, perhaps against his will his heart had forced out of the cage that held it trapped, and warmed towards the dark little girl, his dark little daughter.

He did not love her for the reasons that he had loved her mother – no, indeed! For Finduilas had been soft spoken and tranquil and endearing to all those who knew her, none of which her daughter was, or if she was then she was not so willingly. Her voice, lower than was common for a maiden, could be far louder than the stark words she ground out in the company of all but her brothers. She was not tranquil, for despite her toneless speech there were many times when her temper flared behind her words, longing to spill out into argument or protestation, but always held back and reined in. And whatever else Nienor was, she was not endearing. The stare of her dark eyes was unbearable to all but a few; her humour, when it came in short bursts as the sun from between the clouds, was wry and even biting; she regarded most of those around her with a cool indifference that defied cast and status, so that noble and servant alike felt measured and dismissed. She broke the cold veneer she had formed around herself to let only a few see beneath it; Boromir and Faramir, certainly, but also the healer Ioreth, one or two of her tutors who had chosen to stay with her as she grew older, various librarians, one of her maids who did not report to him and was loyal only to her. And now to the people of the citadel she was warm and kind, perhaps because she wished to be or perhaps only because it suited her.

But she was everything that a woman of the ancient race of Númenor was, traits which had been lost to convention and tradition and the passage of time, leaving nothing but giggling ladies whispering inanely in the courts of the citadel. She was strong willed and proud, glib with her tongue, passionate and daring, full of craft and guile. Had she been a man she would have been a worthy son, worthier than Faramir by far, perhaps even as great as Boromir.

She hated him, as he knew well, though it was far more than any simple hatred. For her there had been a decision, a choice between trying feebly to gain his love, to simply endure with nothing in her heart for him as there seemed to be nothing in his heart for her, or to hate him. And she had chosen to hate him, though she had hidden it very well, never treating him with anything but the greatest respect and hardly ever letting her true feelings show. He was proud of her for keeping her anger and revulsion so concealed. He doubted any other knew but himself, and then only because he was her father and the object of all her fury and frustration and denied hopes.

Such a strange way to show your love for someone. But a woman could not become great with a soft upbringing. Nienor had learned that the world was not shaped around her, and that she must fight for her place in it, as he had fought for his place in his own father's heart and in the city. Life was not merely to be lived, it was to be seized and hammered and cut into your design. Those who did not see this were fools.

He looked at his daughter again, seeing that her pale cheeks were rosy with laughing and her hand had risen to hide her open mouth, and the other hand, filled with flowers, had gone to her ribs. Her eyes were closed for the time, and so for once he did not see them narrow when they met his, as if she would seek out something deep inside of his and strip it away. Her will was so great, at times he feared that she would actually accomplish it. Ah, she was wise indeed. She would seek his own weaknesses as he had found hers and try to use them against him. But she would not succeed for she would have no more chances to do so. In two days time she would be gone, perhaps never to see him again.

He had wondered long of what it would be like without Nienor, without the one who had taken Finduilas from him and had never taken her place, but only now that the ships from Perlargir had landed and docked and the pavilions were being set up did he truly begin to consider it. He was not sorry for his actions; he had long since ceased to feel remorse for much of what he chose to do. Truthfully, he was pleased at the road that had led them to this. His daughter was proud and noble, a worthy match for any prince, and certainly worth more than the future king of Rohan. She would go to Pelargir and grace the city of ships, and she would be the wonder of the plains, a great lady, a vestige of Númenor's past. Orodreth, the one that he had chosen, would treat her well. He knew that there was nothing for her in the White City. Nothing but strangulation by the stones of her home.

He had seen his wife waste away and die, the dreadful birth only hastening her end. He would not wish that upon his worst enemy. And he would not wish it upon his daughter, whom he loved and who hated him. It was easier for her to hate him, he knew, and he was glad of it. It was harder by far to love him.

_

* * *

I look at the crowd of men, as I looked at the faces of the people but a little time ago. On some I see the faces that carry our bloodline, on others are the traits of ordinary men. Perlargir is a city where the race of Númenor mingles with those who live shorter spans. I look at each face in turn. I wonder which one my betrothed to be is. I have never seen him. I have never even been shown a picture of him. They say that he is quick-witted and eager to help his people, but they say that of many men. It means little to me._

_They look back at me, all of the men and the women, and their eyes are wide like those of the people of the city. Do they think that I am beautiful? They do, I know. Some of the men are all but drooling at the sight of this delicious little morsel, like dogs. They would eat me up, every scrap. The women simply stare, some of them narrow their eyes in jealously and others let their lips part in awe, but they are not so uncouth as to whisper. They will save that for other times._

_I feel my father clutch at my sleeve. This means that he wishes for me to move forwards, to present me formally. I obey him – it is one of the last commands from him that I will ever have to obey – and I step beside him. I feel a hand brush at my own free one, the tips of our fingers touching and catching before they are released. Boromir or Faramir, I am not able to tell which._

_My father halts and so I halt beside him, and I find that we are standing so that we see eye to eye with a group of three men. Two are far older than the one standing between them, a youth with the black hair and grey eyes of my people._

_Not him, I think. I will not marry him._

_As soon as these thoughts come to me, I reject them. I have no wish to marry any man, in Minas Tirith or in Perlargir or in the whole of Gondor_

_Father speaks. He presents the Lady Nienor, Daughter of the Citadel, to Orodreth, Heir of the Ships of Pelargir. The man who will be betrothed to me looks at me not as if he would devour me, but as if he would break me down to see what I am made of. His stare is curious, but it is not the curiosity of admiration. He seeks to know what I am. He will have my body; he would have my mind as well. _

_I will not allow it._

_There is talk, and further talk. I listen, but I do not pay heed. I look beyond Orodreth's eyes. I fancy that I see the cloth of the pavilion we are in. There is the clapping of hands. The people are pleased. Orodreth speaks. He says that e promises he will be a good husband to me. He says that my beauty was a legend in Pelargir, but now legend has become truth. I reply._

_I do not even know what I say._

_At last my maids lead me out of the great pavilion. They take me to a smaller tent, and off comes my sash and my dress the colour of cornflowers. They bring out a white dress for me from a chest that was brought as part of my trousseau. I have never worn a white dress before, and never a dress that bares my shoulders. They begin to lace me into it. They will let my hair down and adorn it with white flowers. They will show that I am a maiden. _

_The truth of that assurance will have to wait until the wedding night._

_My mother's ring held in my hand as I stand and endure their ministrations. I feel its cool circle gradually growing warmed as my fingers are closed over it; I feel the stone of the opal warming to my skin. Perhaps if I hold it long enough, it will melt, and fall into molten silver, to be tossed into a boiling pot, and be brought out as something completely new._

_This reasoning seems, in some way, to reflect the rest of my life. This day, and the days that follow, will be the boiling pot; I will be the ring. Who knows what I will be when I am drawn out of the pot? A wife, certainly, but what else? A lady of court?The possession of my husband?An ornament hanging on the arm of one who seeks to delve into my head and extract my every secret? That is my future. That is the form I shall take when I come out of the boiling pot._

_I feel alone. I am surrounded by people, by my maids,but there is not one person who can understand. Not one person who knows what I think. Boromir and Faramir are kind and I love them both so very dearly, but Boromir knows little of what I feel; and though Faramir understands me more, even he would shudder to see what exactly was going on in the head of his sweet, innocent little sister. _

_I am not sweet, and I am not innocent. I am not fit to even be called a lady, the Lady Nienor. Such a title is something afforded to me at my birth, never allowing me a chance to refuse or quit it. But I do not cry. My tears do not leave my eyes red, and carve no tracks down my cheeks. I cannot cry tears. I remember the last time that I cried, when Faramir brought stories for me and when I turned away from him and Boromir. Never since have I wept. Even when I have hurt myself, cut my self with the edges of the pages of the books I read, or grate my skin as I climb banisters, I do not cry. I do not even flinch. I feel as if I have forgotten to cry long ago._

_Yet I can scream. Oh, how I can scream. I have done it many times. When I have sat in dining halls, celebrating age old feasts, when I am standing in front of palace officials, being lectured on proper conduct, when I hear the maids whispering about my marriage prospectsafter those times, I scream. I lock myself into my chambers, and I walk out onto my balcony, far out of the reach of anyone, and I shriek. I scream with all my head and my heart and my mind and my soul, in a desperate attempt to let my voice unlock my heart._

_It rarely works._

_I have tried to take solace in my books, but they will soon be no longer mine. My husband will not wish me to read. The library and its wonders will be lost to me forever. This thought perhaps cuts into my heart more than anything._

_Once I thought of suicide rather than face that eternal bondage, rather than go through endless days of the same routine, the same obligatory obedience, the same nights with my husband in our marital bed, until I produce an heir or heirs, or until I perish in producing one, or kill myself outright. Most likely that; I would probably go mad within a few years, mad with the horror of it all. I would be saving myself much grief._

_But I am a daughter of the citadel and I must be strong. I must not let myself fall into delirium. I cannot. My mind is the only thing that keeps me from serving the unspoken law that demands so much of me, and gives me nothing in return but the title of a lady. I am strong. I know that I must be, or I must die. _

_The braziers in here that have been lit, now that evening is creeping on and the sun is sinking from the sky, are heady. They make some of the maids cough as they begin to unravel my hair. Elené, my closest maid, is still lacing up my dress and telling them not to start so soon. There is laughter and comfort in her voice. She will not be coming with me when I go to Pelargir, and for that I am sorry. The maids from Pelargir pay no heed, and continue to let my hair down. I do not like the feel of their fingers in my hair._

_The scent of smoke is getting stronger. Surely that cannot come from the braziers. The maids are too busy to see, but I, who have the luxury of doing nothing, look over to the door of the pavilion. The door is nearly pulled to, but in the dusk beyond it I can see something._

"_Fire," I say. "Burning."_

_Most of them do not hear me, but Elené's fingers still at my back and I hear her intake of breath. What could be burning now, here?_

_I can hear screams._

_I tell the women to halt. They stare at me in confusion, but now that they do not chatter, they can hear the sounds too. There are more than screams; there are laughs, guttural and like animals._

_It is one of the maids from Pelargir who speaks first. Even her voice trembles. "Orcs."_

_The curtain is gripped and thrust aside. Many of us cry out, some clinging to others, but it is not an orc but Faramir. He has a cut on his neck and his face is dirty, but it is Faramir. I break away from the women and run to him, ignoring that my dress is still only partly laced up my back. I seize his arm and his hands come to my shoulders. His eyes are wild._

"_Brother?" I ask. "What is happening?"_

_His reply makes the women shriek with fear. "Orcs are raiding the camp. They observed us gathering. They are coming this way. You must fly, Nienor."_

_Everything goes so quickly now. What follows after this is what I remember._

"_Where shall I go?" I do not feel afraid. It will do me no good to feel fear, and so I do not feel it. I wish that the maids would see that. One of them is weeping most stupidly._

"_Get a horse. Ride for the city. We must stay and fight them off." He pulls me out of the door. Behind me I hear one of the maids howl that the orcs will rape us and kill us._

"_Be quiet," I tell her, looking over my shoulder. "You should run instead of standing there, waiting for them to get you." There are flames coming closer. I never saw such large flames before; they tower over the tents and pavilions. There are shapes in the flames as well._

"_Thank the Valar," Faramir says, pulling me to one of the horses roped by the pavilion. They are stamping and snorting. I did not wish to sit upon their backs when they were calm. I do not like horses, and I do not think that they like me. He grasps at my waist and swings me up onto the horse that I rode down from the city, and then he cuts through its binding rope. I wriggle and try to sit astride it, I know I will fall off if I ride as a woman does. Faramir smacks the horse with the flat of his sword and the horse screams and surges forward. I have only one sight of my brother's face before he is lost behind me. I do not even say goodbye. Will I even see him again?_

_I cling to the horse's mane. Do not let me fall. I brace my legs about its belly. Do not let me fall. The horse leaps over a river of flames. Do not let me fall. I see the horse's mane in front of me, but I see that there are others horses running through the flames with riders on their backs, I see that they are soldiers of Gondor. They ride closer to me. They form a guard about me. They will take me back to the city. I will be kept up I the citadel until all is safe once more._

_It is vile to think of it._

_I hear a yell, and I look in time to see one of the men fall from his horse. I see an arrow head sticking through his neck, before the dusk and the flames whirl him away. There is another cry. One man falls with an arrow in his shoulder. A scream. One man reels in the saddle, but does not fall. I try not to think what a target my white dress presents to whoever is wielding the bow. I clutch the horse's mane. It clears the last line of fire. It is a free dash to the city._

_I do not know why, but I jerk the horse's mane with both my hands and the horse turns to the right. We will not run to the city. We will run away from the city. Perhaps I do know why I do this._

_The horse runs, but it does not run far. I feel the shudder as the arrow hits its flank, and the horse's shrill yowl of pain runs through my ears. It stumbles, and my stomach falls away from me as it crashes to the ground and throws me. I come away from its back. I fall._

_The landing is hard, and I feel something break inside me. I do not yet know where the break is. Up is down and down is up, and I do not know whether I lie with my face to the ground or to the sky. There is wetness, and a taste of metal in my mouth. I reach out a hand and I push against the hardness beneath me. I look up and see flames, and a leering face. It hardly looks true. It is from a nightmare_

_It smiles or it snarls, I do not know which, and it reaches out towards me. I do not let it touch me. I pull myself away. My dress sticks to my breasts. I look down and the white is stained with red. My mouth and nose are warm. I raise a hand and feel my face. My nose is broken. The creature swings at me, I see the light shine open something sharp. It will cut me and spill more blood than that from my nose. I will not let it hurt me. I kick out at its legs. One is raised of the ground, and the other is weak. The thing falls back, and I back away further._

_My feet and my hands splash in something. I do not know if it is my blood or water. There are flames all about me, now. They are shutting out the sight of the thing, it must be an orc. Is this a trap? If so, I have crawled into it to escape another. _

_I look around for some way out of the wall of fire but there is nothing, no gap, no space through which I might run – if I could run. The fire licks along the ground, licking and licking at the liquid soaking into the earth_

_It is so hot. Smoke is everywhere, and only now do I notice it. Already I can hardly see. My eyes are watering so from the smoke. The smoke is everywhere. It is floating around me, wreathing my body in grey; working its way into my lungs, and making me cough. If I stay here, I shall die. I must try to find a way out._

_But I know that there is no way out. The fire is all about m, and it is closing in. There is no way out. I cannot get out. I shall die here, in this ring of flame. But how?By fire, or by smoke? The smoke is tearing my lungs, making me cough and choke; the flame is heating my skin. I can hardly see. Where am I?_

_I am afraid now. I want help. I know I will never receive it; but the childish part of me still wishes for it. Something in me still wants to live. I don't want to die. I won't die here._

_The sky is full of flames. They have spread all around me. There is no way out. I am trapped in fire and smoke. The smoke is so thick, I can see nothing except the light of the flames; I can hear nothing but the crackling of the fire._

_The flames leap at me, as if wanting to tear my face; I move backwards and cover my face with my hands, as if to protect it. I must try to stand up. I put out a hand against the earth to rise. My fingers meet with heat and heat. The heat of my mother's ring, the silver warmed more by the flames than by my fingers, and the flame that licks across the back of my hand, scorching my skin. At once I pull my hand, with the ring, back, the ring burns my fingers._

_Now I can smell more than smoke, and the flaming stuff that must be oil. Something is burning. Something nearer. It is coming from me! My hair! I can smell my hair scorching and crisping. I can smell the burnt flesh of my burnt hand. It hurts badly. I do not move it too much, for fear of injuring it more. It feels as if it is still on fire, it is worse than being cut. It hurts so much. I do not want to be hurt like that again. I huddle away from the flames. But where can I go? The fire is all around me now. Wherever I turn, there is the fire, hungry to lick at my flesh, and burn me. Yet I hold my mother's ring. I have not lost it. It will not help me, but I have not have lost it. I slip it off my fingers and holding it in my hand._

_I can hear something other than the flames. A snuffling, whining sound. It is me! I am crying. For the first time in years I am crying, but not from pain or fear. I am simply weeping. It is strange, to weep without knowing why. My tears are spilling out onto my face, yet it is so hot they seem to hiss and vanish. My hands, over my face to protect my eyes, are being torn with great rips of pain. I can only just hear my own sobs above the roar of the flames. _

_And then the flames are upon me. They leap upon my back and upon my legs as I struggle to stand again. I can feel them eating into me. They are eating me, for daring to defy my fate, for trying to run away. I almost welcome their devouring embrace. My world is full of pain. My back is on fire, my legs are aflame, my hands are now balls of pain, my nose and face, dried with blood, screams with it. Soon I will be a living torch. I will burn into nothing. Here is my melting pot; and I will melt into nothing._

_But I can hear voices. Yes, voices above the flames! They are calling my name, they are calling for me. Are they the voices of spirits, calling me to the next world? Yet as the flames grow higher I can hear them better. Surely that is Faramir, calling my name, and Boromir screaming for me to answer him? I want to call out, but I cannot. The pain is too much, it is too great. Not even this pain can be mastered._

_I hold my mother's ring tight to my face, in my withering hands. Mother.Mother? Please, help me. Don't let me die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die…_

_This is the end._

_But suddenly hands are around me, scooping me up. Arms pulling me away from the flames! As the smoke and heat fades from my eyes my hands fall away from my face, and I am able to see again. This is all like a dream. I was on fire, and now my father carries me in his arms, beating at my flaming dress, or what is left of it. Boromir and Faramir are here as well, helping to carry me, bearing me away from the flames. But my whole world centres on my father. He is holding me close against him, not letting me go, he is stronger than he looks and needs no aid. His withered hands are tight about me; holding me so hard it hurts. Tears are streaming down his face. Or is it only the light of the fire? Perhaps that is it._

_I can hardly think straight. I have been rescued from flames, but I still feel as if I am on fire. My back and my hands are screaming at me, screaming in pain. I want to scream out loud, but I cannot, perhaps the fire has burned away my voice._

_The heat from around is quite gone now. People are crowding about me. I am not in Father's arms any more, I am lying on the ground. There are dead bodies all about us. But Father is still next to me, his eyes fixed on my face. Boromir and Faramir are here as well; Faramir is crying, and Boromir has put his arm around him. I have seen Faramir cry before, as I have seen Boromir do so as well, but this is frightening. It is not as frightening, however, as seeing Father cry_

_I have never seen Father cry before. This is more frightening than anything else; for what could induce my father to weep? _

_Boromir is speaking. He is saying that if he hadn't seen the glinting of the ring, held tight in my hands, then they would never have found me. My mother's ring! It has helped save my life. Perhaps my mother's spirit was acting through it, to protect me? Or is that just a fancy I would like to believe? _

_Voices babble about me, as I am lifted up again, and carried off. My father is holding me; from what I can tell he will not allow anyone else to carry me. This is all too strange. My father has hardly ever touched me before; now he is clasping me to him as if I am his most treasured possession; as if he is afraid of losing me._

_The pain is still here, but it is fading. So is the light. Perhaps I am dying, all this seems too strange for life. As I fade into darkness, I hear someone say that if I live, my back and arms will surely be scarred for life._

_At least Orodreth might not wish to marry me then._

**

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Anyone who read this the first time around will recognise certain bits of it. Does it make any more sense than the last time?**

**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	12. 3004 III

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from LOTR.

* * *

**Faramir sat under the shadow of the White Tree, and its branches cast well needed shadows across his face, keeping the light away from his tired eyes. A new day had dawned, and yet there was no hope to be found in the rising sun. What hope was there, if Nienor's eyes did not open to see it? What hope was there when she lay silent in her sick bed, her soul all but fled from her body? 

It was the third day now since the remnants of the betrothal gathering had returned to the city, the bridegroom dead, spitted on a pike by one of the enemy, and the bride not expected to live. Faramir knew full well that he should feel sorrow for the Lord Orodreth, younger than he was and cut down in his youth, but he was dead. His trouble was over. He would be buried, and mourned, and perhaps he would be forgotten and perhaps he would not be. But Nienor was alive still, and yet not alive at all. The city and the citadel wept over her fate, the beautiful young girl who had been ruined by the flames of the enemy. Some who had gathered flowers for her betrothal now picked rue and thyme to throw upon her funeral bier, it seemed so certain to them that she would die.

The smell of the wretched plants had followed him throughout the citadel as he paced frenziedly along stone walkways and through corridors ripe with echoes, even the Houses of Healing, where his sister lay on her sickbed. Why did they harvest plants of mourning so soon? Nienor was not cold and lifeless yet! She still breathed; even if she had not yet woken, she still lived! She did not yet warrant incense being burned in her memory, or morbid decorations noting her passing. She was not dead, like their mother.

Here, on the sunlit bastion, was the only place that he could escape from the funeral plants, where the wind blew fresh and clean. He hated the smells that met him at every turn, he hated that he could smell them again, after so many years, and he hated that the only memory he had of their mother in her last days was the scent of her wake, the cloying scent that brought to mind Finduilas's dead face. He hated that Nienor's face, bruised and beaten, began to replace that of their mother. Nienor would not share their mother's fate. She would not die.

But the news that Ioreth, one of the chief healers, had given to him this morning, was crushing his hope as easily as an enemy rock upon his tender chest. That Nienor would most likely not die but would never wake was truly more terrible than if she had died from her burns that dreadful night, or had passed away in the days afterwards. If she were truly dead, then he could allow himself to weep and to cry for his sister, even if their father would not permit it, and after that he would live on through each day with another hole in his heart and his mind. But instead he would still see his sister's face perhaps every day, and would speak to her, knowing all the while that her eyes would never open to meet his and he would never hear her voice again.

It was as if Nienor _was_ already dead, but mourning for her was forbidden by all, himself as well as his father and his brother.

He raised his fingers to his throat, to feel the stitches that had sewn his skin back together after his wound had been cleaned, and then to his eyes to wipe away the tears he knew that he would find there. He found himself having to breathe hard so that more would not come. He closed his eyes, and his free hand curled around his legs and pulled them to his chin, seating himself as he had not done since he was a boy. He did not care what the guards, standing by the steps that led up to the bastion, thought.

It should not be like this. It was not right that Nienor should sleep her life away, forever dreaming, never waking. She deserved so much more; she was worth so much more. She had survived the night where others had perished, she had stubbornly held on to life when all had thought that she would die by the day's end, and yet now she would spend that life trapped inside her body, inside her own head. She would become weaker and weaker, and when she did die, as all of the race of Men must, whatever their bloodline, she would never know of it.

Faramir looked up to see the dead white branches of the tree moving softly in the wind the blew around him and above him, the tree that had been dead for many years and yet was still preserved, the tree that would only live again if the king came back. His eyes watered anew, both with his sorrow and with the force of the wind. If a king could heal the disorder in Gondor, and heal his sister, then the empty throne was his for the taking, and the tree was his to heal or replant anew. He would not oppose such a man.

He looked away from the branches in time to see a familiar shape making its slow way up the steps that led from the second level to the citadel, a figure from three years ago and longer than that. He could not help but smile, and stand and walk to take Mithrandir's hand.

"Greetings, Grey Pilgrim," he murmured, as he helped the old wizard up the last few steps and onto the bastion. "What brings you to this sorry city?"

"I will tell you, Faramir, if first you might tell me why the White City is so sorrowful," Mithrandir replied, as he took his hand from Faramir's glove-clad one. "I smelled the rue at the first gate, and it has preceded me all the way up here. Who is it who has died?"

It was surprising to Faramir how easy it was to speak of it. "Not one who has died, but one whom all believe will die. Our sister is the one they mourn, Mithrandir. Our sister, Nienor." He watched as Mithrandir's blue eyes widened, and answered the wizard's questions as quickly as they were asked, of the betrothal celebration, of the attack, of how Nienor's escape had been thwarted and how she had been so badly hurt, of how their father had carried her back himself, refusing to let any other touch his daughter, and of how for two days now she had lain in a fevered sleep that would not break, that the healers said would never break.

"The healers try and they try, but they can do nothing for her mind," he finished, hardly trusting himself not to let his tears slip into his voice. "They say that something inside her is broken. They say…Mithrandir, they say that her body lives, but her mind is dead." His fingers tightened, the leather of his gloves grinding. "Father has hardly left her side. He does not eat, he hardly sleeps. My brother and I fear that he will make himself ill. We do not know what to do any more, Mithrandir. Our little sister is as good as dead, and our father is killing himself because he cannot bear to lose her." The knowledge that their father was willing to follow his daughter, rather than to stay with the sons that were alive, was painful, but not as painful as Nienor falling down into darkness from which she would never rise. His gaze dropped to the stone of the bastion, as he closed his eyes to make a dam and hold the salt water back. "He keeps muttering that if a man named Thorongil were here, he would save her…he is part way to madness already…"

Mithrandir's hand came down upon his shoulder, and squeezed the flesh there. "This is indeed evil news, Faramir. I feel sorrow for you all, more than I can tell. If something could be done…"

There was a hint in the wizard's tone, a hint of something that he chose not to voice, that made Faramir look up again and into Mithrandir's face. Something he faintly recalled as hope began to grow in him once more, struggling against the tightness in his chest. "Do you mean that something _can_ be done, Mithrandir? Speak more plainly, I beg you."

The wizard took away his hand to clasp his staff, the sympathy that had been in his face dying away to be replaced with a kind of gaze that Faramir did not think he had ever seen on the face of any man or woman, not even his own father. If wisdom and power and restraint, all melded and alloyed together, had eyes, then they would look at him with a gaze something akin to Mithrandir's. "Something _could _be done, Faramir. But that does not mean that it will be done."

"But you could help her." Faramir seized onto the idea even as he voiced it, as he seized the wizard's arm. "You could help to bring her back, from wherever she is now. You know that you could, Mithrandir."

"I could." The old man said nothing else, and lifted Faramir's hand away from his arm with surprising strength.

"But will you?"

There was a space between his words, in which the wind blew and his cloak and Mithrandir's robes rippled in the breeze, before the wizard spoke at last. "Take me to her, Faramir, and I will see what can be done."

It was all that he needed to take Mithrandir by the sleeve and hurry him back down the stairs, past the wondering guards, and into the Houses of Healing. Quickly he led the wizard to the room he had so recently quitted, the room in which his hope and that of his brother and father had drained away, but which had now come back in full flood. He led him inside, into the dusk and the quiet.

The first thing any person saw when entering the chamber was the bed, and the one who lay upon it, above all else. Faramir half feared that Mithrandir would not believe that this was Nienor. He had told the wizard that his sister looked so very like their mother, but now she did not resemble anyone very greatly; much of her beautiful dark hair had been burned off by the same fire that had scorched her flesh, and her face was badly beaten. Her nose, when she had been found, had been broken and flowing with blood, and though it had been expertly set it had lost the elegant slope he faintly remembered from his mother's face. But most of all her eyes were closed, so that no one might see the darkness in their depths, the dear darkness. How frail she looked, the sister who had always seemed to be so strong!

A sound to his left made him recall the presence of others in the chamber besides the healers, who even now were muttering at his sudden reappearance, and the presence of a stranger in their midst; one had even rushed out, brushing past them. He thought only now of what the Lord Denethor would say or how he would act, knowing that his younger son had brought the wizard he so hated to his daughter's sick bed. Would he banish Mithrandir outright? That must not be, not when there was hope!

But he was comforted that it was only Boromir, rising fro ma seat in the corner and rubbing weariness from his eyes, Boromir who stared at the two of them, stifling a yawn. "Faramir? Why have you come back? And…Mithrandir!" The weariness faded from his eyes, as Boromir recognised one who he had not seen in more than ten years, a distant memory made flesh, and standing in his sister's sick chamber. "What are you doing here?"

"Where is our father, Boromir?" he asked hurriedly, ignoring the secret shame he felt that he had perhaps abandoned this vigil when Boromir had been willing to stay, despite the agony that it might cost him. "When I left he was still present. Where has he gone?"

"Only a little time after you left his attendants finally convinced him to leave, to rest. I promised him that I would keep watch…over her." Boromir looked to the bed, his mouth set grimly. "He would not have departed otherwise."

Faramir knew that this meant they had, at best, only a few minutes before the Lord Denethor would be back, like a storm returning in thunder and fury. Most likely that healer had been instructed to bring him news of any change in his daughter's condition, and the visit of an unknown man would be of great concern to the Steward, and even more so when the man was described.

He turned to look at Mithrandir. "Our father will be here soon, then. If it is in your power to help her, Mithrandir, then you must do it now."

The wizard nodded at his words, and then moved forward to the bedside, the brothers following. The three healers, shocked and confused, moved out of his path, and then the old man was at Nienor's right, holding her hand, with Faramir beside him and Boromir on the other side of the bed. He placed his weathered hand on Nienor's poor, shaved head, and Faramir heard his hiss of breath, and his whisper. "Poor child. An evil fire made these marks."

He looked down at his little sister's face, her pale skin barely standing out against the crisp cloth of her pillows. It looked so calm and so peaceful, so tranquil, so _wrong._ Nienor was not peaceful. She was vibrant and powerful, and it should show in her face. He wanted to see her dark eyes burn once more, not stay closed and quiet and dead. He wanted to hear her voice, not just her breath, so quiet it could barely be heard. "Can you help her, Mithrandir?"

Mithrandir's eyes opened, and turned to look at him. "If you wish to know, both of you, I could bring her back. But, this lies with you both…should I?"

"What do you mean?" Boromir was confused, and not a little angry. "If you have a way to restore our sister, then do it! Do it now!" The impetuous heir to the Stewardship bunched his fists into the sheets, barely missing his sister's heavily bandaged arm.

Mithrandir only shook his head. "You do not understand me. Think on this. I could bring her back to the waking world, but to what kind of life would I bring her?" he looked steadily at the both of them, before continuing. "Would she be able to live with the wounds she has now, that she will keep for the rest of her days? She will walk in pain for all of her life, I can see it all too clearly. There might come a time, all too soon, when she would blame you both for calling her back instead of granting her release, and would think it better that she had died instead."

Faramir looked away, trying not to let tears come once more. He knew what the wizard said was true, he knew the extent of Nienor's injuries. Her arms, her hands, her back and much of her legs, all had fallen victim to the greedy flames, and all bore the brunt of that greed. The scars would stay with her, always. And the thought that his sister, their sister, their little sister, would grow to hate them and blame them for bringing her back to such pain, was dreadful. The thought that their love could cause such pain was…terrifying.

But her eyes would burn again, and her voice would speak again, and she would be passionate once more. And that gave him the strength that he needed to speak. "It would be better than this half life. She has not struggled to live only to dream into death, never waking. It would be worth her hatred."

"She is our sister, Mithrandir." Boromir was more quiet now, his voice near to pleading. "We cannot lose her. Not again."

The wizard sighed, whether with relief or regret he could not tell, for all that he was a great judge of men. "So be it. But it must be your voices that call her back. In truth, I feel that she has been struggling to return, but she needs a bridge to cross the void. Call to her as I speak." He laid his hand across her closed eyes now, and discarding his blue hat he bent his grey head close to her ear, whispering words of recall. He glared up at them. "Call her, as I told you!"

Their voices conflicted at once, each saying words he thought Nienor would hear, words that would lend her strength to fight her way free. Faramir did not know what Boromir spoke – indeed he could hardly even hear his own words – but he knew what he said.

"Nienor. Come back to us, sister. Come back. This is not your path. You are loved, Nienor. You might not have thought it, but you are loved, you are wanted. We love you so dearly, Nienor. You must come back. You must fight. Fight the darkness, Nienor. You owe it to yourself."

And then, after speaking for hours or perhaps days, he heard Nienor's breath quicken. Already he surged forward and Mithrandir drew his hand back, and all at once his sister's eyes were opening, pale lids opening to reveal the darkness beneath them…for once a tired darkness, a weak darkness, but a darkness that he did not flinch from.

"Oh, Nienor." He had sunk to his knees that he might come closer to her face. Now, more than ever, he wanted to take her into his arms, and hold her and never release her, and Boromir did too, he thought, but he could not. For her sake, he could not. But he pulled the glove off his hand so that he might stroke her face. "Nienor? Do you know us?"

"My…brothers." He could feel her arms straining to reach out to them, but she did not have the strength, he could tell from her voice. Never had it sounded so soft, and so weak, but it was there, barely halting. "You are…safe? Both of you?"

"We are safe." Boromir's voice from beside him trembled, but it held steady.

"And…our father?" But their sister was distracted by the one standing above them, now. "You…you are…Mithrandir?"

"Yes, my lady." The wizard's voice was more gentle now than he had ever heard it, even when he was young, as if he feared hurting Nienor even further with mere words.

He could hardly see Nienor now, his eyes were so blurry with tears. But he heard the smile in her tired voice. "I have…always longed to…meet you. But…" The happiness was gone now, as he had feared. "I did…not think that…it would ever be like…this." He buried his face into her bed sheets, as he felt a weight fall on his head – her hand, he knew it was. "My head feels…so light. And my…arms. They pain me. Faramir? Boromir? There is…pain. Why is…there so much _pain?"_

Faramir and Boromir of Gondor made no answer, as for the first time in three days, they wept. The tears of their sister fell upon their heads.

_

* * *

This is how the days pass._

_I sleep. I dream. I scream. I wake. Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep. I sleep. I dream. I scream. I wake. Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep._

_There are times when I dream the old dream, of hands pulling me down into the darkness and stopping my mouth as I shriek, only now they also grasp my arms and legs and back as if they would rip the very skin off me, and tear away my limbs after. When I wake gasping of it, the healers know that they must change my bandages. That hurts all the more, because it is the pain of wakefulness, when I cannot escape. _

_I wake and Varda, the Lady of Stars, smiles down at me from the painted ceiling of my room._

_There are times when I dream that I have not fled from that orc at all, and he has tied me down, and he is pushing something sharp, oh so sharp, between my legs, pushing a blade or a pointed stick right up inside me, cutting through all in its path. When I wake I know that the sheets of my bed will be sodden with yellow water, and I must be cleaned and the sheets changed before I am given the juice from poppies to sleep once more. _

_The Lady of Stars holds out her hands to welcome me back into the waking world._

_But most of all I dream of fire, of a circle of fire, I smell the smell of it; I feel the heat of it upon my skin and crackling in my hair. And I scream. I scream until I wake, and then I scream after that. Sometimes I can hardly make myself stop. _

_Varda's smile meets my eyes as they open._

_I sleep, and I dream, and I scream, and I wake, and Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep._

_At the start of the second day I fear that if I were not the daughter of Denethor, they would gag me when they dressed my burns, and I will choke on my shrieks. I ask Ioreth for something that will swallow my cries. She gives me a leather strap, which grown men bite upon when their wounds are dressed or when the healers needs must cut off parts of them that are crushed and mangled, and no juice of poppies will ease the pain._

_I sleep. I dream. I scream. I wake. Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep._

_By the third evening the strap is all but bitten in two. Ioreth gives me a new one, thicker, which stands up to the sharpness of my teeth and the strength of my bite, made stronger by my pain. I growl in agony as if I were a wounded dog. I growl until my voice is gone, and I could not scream even if I wished to._

_I sleep. I dream. I hiss. I wake. Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep._

_I learn to wake myself when I feel the pain upon my skin, so that I can call to the healers to change me anew, and I learn to wake when I feel the pain between my legs so that the healers can bring me a pot to piss in, and I learn to wake when I feel the heat upon my flesh so that I can gasp to myself in the dark and feel my sweat dry in the cool air and in my sheets, before I call for help. But I cannot learn to go to sleep again at my own will. I must have the juice of poppies, or I will not sleep at all._

_I do not think that I will ever sleep of my own accord again._

_I sleep. I dream. I force myself not to scream, I force myself to wake. I lie in the dark until Ioreth comes._

_My flesh feels as if it is covered by nothing, and is open to the pain and poison of the air. Fire runs up and down me. The fire that burned me is still inside me, and it burns yet, it burns away the healing salves they smear upon my arms and legs and back and further down. I can hardly recall a time when there was no fire and no burning and no pain. There are times when I think, shaking with a cold that comes upon me or aflame once more, that I must have been on this bed for all of my life, ever since I sprang from my mother and killed her, and that this fire is my punishment for ending her sweet life as my own foul one goes on and on and on._

_I sleep. I dream. I wake, gasping for the breath that hardly comes. Ioreth gives me a drink for sleep._

_My brothers come and go, stroking my face and where my hair used to be, sitting by my side. They look weary. They do not cry now, but I do not think that they are joyful. I do not think any man or woman could be joyful in this room, which rings with gagged screams and whines of pain, and still smells of cooking meat. There are times when I hear them speak, and times when I do not, but that is not their fault. The poppy juice claims my wakefulness, and I sink down into darkness. If they are here when I wake and scream, I do not see them. I love that they are willing to come, and that they do not stay away. They want to be here. They called me back from the dark, the strangling dark. They are all that I wish to see._

_I wish that they would hold me, but they do not dare do that. They do not wish to hurt me any further. I do not know if the pain of being embraced would hurt more than my brothers being unwilling to touch me._

_My father sits in the corner of the room, like a dark spirit escaped from my dreams. Each time I see him his hair is a little more matted, his face a little more drawn and more tired, but I never see him asleep. Always he watches me. I do not think that he leaves, even when I scream and wake, even when I battled the healers on the second day, fearing the pain that they would bring with them, kicking weakly and hitting them uselessly. He does not leave when I awake in my own filth and am handled like a swaddled baby by the stronger healers as they clean me and dress me in new robes, like an infant. He does not leave when I wake, babbling of fire and croaking instead of shrieking. _

_Perhaps he does not leave because I scream, or try to._

_Perhaps he does not leave, because he thinks that this suffering is my punishment. _

_Or perhaps he does not leave, because he thinks that my suffering is _his _punishment. _

_I do not know which is more terrifying._

_On the fourth day Mithrandir comes, with Faramir and Boromir at his side. He holds my bandaged hand despite the pain, but I do not mind. He blesses me and tells me that I will not suffer for much longer, and that I will soon be well again. It is soothing to hear his voice. I wish that he will stay with me for a longer time, but I do not think that my father allows it, for he stares at the both of us for all the time that Mithrandir is here, and Mithrandir leaves sooner than I would have liked. I wish that he would have stayed until I could speak back to him. I have so much to ask him, not least why this hurts so very greatly, and what I have done to deserve it, and what my burn wounds look like._

_My father and I sit in silence after that. I cannot speak, and would not wish to. He does not have to speak, though I believe that he does wish to._

_There is all the difference in the world between speaking because you have to and speaking because you wish to._

_But my father says nothing._

_There is one person who does not come to visit me, and of that I am glad. I do not want Orodreth near me like this. I would not have him wish me better. I am happy that he does not come._

_I sleep. I dream. I wake. I breathe. I sleep. I dream. I wake. I breathe._

_On the fifth day my voice returns to me, and I ask Ioreth to let me see my burns. She refuses. I ask. She refuses. I demand. She refuses. Only when I say that I will rip the dressings off to see what I have become does she come forward, her face dark, and she carefully unwraps just my hand to show me, so that I can see._

_I see. My father, from his corner, sees too._

_Again we say nothing, to each other or to any other. Father sits in his lonely seat and watches me watch my hand. I let Ioreth wrap my hand again. I lie back down and I look at the ceiling of the chamber. The Lady smiles down at me. I have nothing to say, or to do._

_If that is my hand, what is the rest of me like?_

_I have been melted, like candle wax. My bones hold dripping flesh. Why does my flesh not slide off my bones?_

_What am I now?_

_What am I?_

_I do not sleep. I cannot sleep. I lie awake. I breathe._

_On the sixth day, nine days after my burning, the moon is right, and I feel the pain between my legs tighten, and I wake and I call the healers to bring a pot with weariness. A little red comes with the yellow, that I can see, but only a very little. They show me, biting their lips. There is nothing else that day, or on the day after it. There is that trickle, but my moon blood does not come. It will not come._

_On the eighth day, my sheets are still free of blood. The healers say that this is not right. Ioreth says nothing with words, but she says much with her eyes._

_I do not sleep. I lie awake. I breathe. _

_On the ninth day, twelve days after my burning, Ioreth at last shoos the other healers out of the room, and makes a tent of my bed sheets over her head and my legs, and I feel her hands push my robe up above my hips. She stays down there for a long time, and I can feel her fingers brushing up my legs, rasping over the bandages upon them, and further up, and further up. She undoes the bandages that cushion me between my legs. _

_Her fingers are cold and thin._

_I look up at the ceiling and at nothing else. Would this be different from my wedding night? I do not show that I wish my father were gone. I do not show that I wish he were anywhere but here, watching this. _

_At last Ioreth straightens, wiping her hands on a damp cloth, and her face comes into view again. She does not cry, but she looks as if she would like to. She looks from me to my father, and to me again, as she smoothes down the sheets over my legs once more. I feel her fingers shake._

_I do not think that I want to hear what she has to say. I do not want to hear it at all._

"_The burns are very great." Who is she speaking to? "The Lady Nienor's legs were harmed greatly, but I think that she will be able to walk once more, in time. But…" She looks at my father now. "There must be no children, my lord." _

_She walks up to my head, and she seizes my hand. It hurts. She leans down to straighten my pillow, and she speaks, now to me. "I think, my lady, that there _will_ be no children. The damage is too great."_

_Barren. I am barren. She is saying that I am barren._

_This is not true. This must not be true. Words come from my mouth. They are high and thin. "Orodreth will not marry me, then?" I sound like a child, foolish and disbelieving._

_I find my answer in Ioreth's face, but it is not the one I wished for. Her face brings news of an end that reaches far further than my womb. She straightens and steps away from me. She chews her lip. She tells me what no other has told me._

"_Lady Nienor, the Lord Orodreth is…" _

_But it is my father who says the words. His voice creaks from the corner. "He is dead, Nienor. Orodreth is dead. He died in the battle with the orcs. His body had been taken back to Pelargir, for burial."_

_Dead. He is dead._

_I look at Father. He looks at me. In that look, we understand each other. I know why he stayed. He wanted to be the one to tell me. No one else but he should tell me this. He knows that I wish for him to leave, that I do not want anyone one else to be here._

_Not now._

_Not like this._

_He rises and gestures to Ioreth. She obeys, though with hesitance. They leave. My father shuts the door behind him._

_I am alone. For the first time since I awoke in my new body, made of pain, I am alone._

_When even the echoes of their footsteps have gone, I look up at the ceiling. The Lady of the Stars smiles down upon me, her arms spread wide to embrace, and her laughing face cuts into me. Does she pity me? I do not want pity. Does she mock me? I care not._

_I am unlucky. I am bad luck._

_Oh, Valar. I prayed to you to help me. I prayed that I would not have to marry Orodreth, that I would not have to share his bed, with all my heart and mind and soul. I prayed with all my life that I would not have to bear his children._

_Now I never will. I never can._

_Was that your answer to my prayer?_

**

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Alas, poor Orodreth, we hardly knew thee! I admit that the lad was something of a plot device character, but it's not as if Prof Tolkein didn't adopt that fad. Erkenbrand isn't much more than a plot device himself.**

**Poppy juice is essentially opium, which is why Ioreth isn't using more of it to keep Nienor under. Enough of the stuff and you can get addicted to it, and too much and you can die from it. I'm guessing that although the Houses of Healing are very advanced, this is still Medieval type medicine, and I doubt they'd have any stronger pain killers than herbal remedies.**

**Rue is a plant often associated with mourning, and thyme is often associated with virginity. Throwing these onto a young woman's bier would, I think show mourning for the loss of one so young, and still a virgin.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	13. 3005 I

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of LOTR.**

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Just as a warning for anyone who might disapprove of this sort of thing – though really, I don't think there's anything to disapprove of - this chapter features hints of a slight girl-on-girl crush. Definitely nothing explicit, I assure you, it's barely even there, and where it is there is simply the fluff of an adolescent girl who's been scarred in more ways than one.**_**

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3005**_

It was the light touch from gloved fingers on her shoulder that woke Elené, and she opened her eyes to see, in the faint candle light above her, the face of her mistress. At once she knew that today was a rare good day, that the Lady Nienor had managed to rise by herself, and she would use her strength while she could in the way that she thought best.

"Up, Elené, and quickly," the lady whispered. "Let us be gone before those squawking pigeons that flock about me begin to rise."

Quickly she sat up and rose from her bed, pulling on her sleeping robe and following her lady back into her chambers. She could see that Nienor had even managed to put on her morning robe by herself and had pulled out one of her dresses from the chest that held it, despite the effort it must have cost her. The dress itself was another sign that today was a good day; trimmed with fur and with a matching cloak, it was made for the cold weather that plagued the citadel and crept even into the inner rooms. It was a sign that showed that the daughter of Denethor planned to walk outside her rooms this day, for a good while. What the lady wanted could not be denied, even if she would pay for it in the days afterwards when she could not even rise from her bed and needs must be given a draught to ease her pain before she could so much as move.

She worked swiftly and by the candlelight that Nienor had started, gently stripping off her lady's robe and unfastening the back of her nightgown. First the lotion supplied by the healers was to be applied, and she spent some time, as she did every morning, rubbing it gently into the melted and cooled skin of her mistress's back. Nienor sat patiently upon a chair holding her nightgown to her breasts, never flinching at what surely was very painful. It was a quiet time that she enjoyed, despite herself. This, more than the lady choosing a librarian's daughter to be one of her principle maids, to read to her in the evenings when she was weary and accompany her when she went to her lessons, was a sign of how close they were. Save for Ioreth and one other healer, and herself, no one was allowed to gaze on Nienor's burned skin, not even her brothers.

Once that was done, she brought out linen small clothes for Nienor to slip her legs into that were then fastened at the waist, and another linen bandage to wrap gently about her breast several times, before the nightgown could be dropped and the dress could be slipped over her head. The gown was secured by a belt, the high collar at her neck was fastened tight, and a pair of boots was brought out and fitted on to her feet.

Elené drew back as Nienor sat down on the chair once more, and began to pull off her gloves. The maid knew better than to watch her mistress applying the lotion to her hands; that was one thing that Nienor would not permit. She did not even allow the healers to tend to her hands any longer. For this alone she demanded solitude, and she was not prepared to disobey her lady on this.

She retreated into her room to put on her own dress, to find her boots, to fasten on her cape and pick up her own gloves. By the time she returned the lady's sleeping gloves lay on a table, and her fingers were now covered in blue velvet that matched her dress. All that was needed now was her cloak, fastened at her throat with a brooch, and then the headscarf. The Lady Nienor's hair was slowly growing back, but it would be many more years before it would return to the length it had been before the fire had burned much of it away and the rest of it had been shaved off by the healers as she sweated in her fever of three days. At first when it had begun to grow anew it had been soft and shadowy, very like the down on an infant bird, and she had worn a cap to hide her baldness; but now it stood up and out from her head, much like a stiff horse hair crest. Elené ran her fingers through it as she pulled the scarf about her head and pinned it, feeling her warm skin easily. The absence of her dark locks brought about quite a change in her mistress's appearance. Gone with the abundance of hair that had framed her face for all of her life was what softness and delicacy she had seemed to have, and with the set of her broken nose she looked older, harder, wilder, more like to a seasoned warrior than a lady of the citadel's court.

"Are you ready, Lady Nienor?" They were the first words she spoken since she had awakened; they did not need to wake any others who might wish to stop them from vanishing. The lady grasped her cane once more as an answer; satisfied, Elené picked up some books from the many piles that lay around the room, and they set out from the lady's chambers, walking softly and closing the door as gently as they could. They did not even dare to speak until they stepped out of the echoing halls still lit by torchlight, and into the fresh, crisp air of the bastion. The light of the sun was reaching into the sky above them, but it had not yet reached where they stood and the darkness was cold.

"Where shall we go, Lady Nienor?" she asked softly, hoping they would not attract the attention of the two guards standing by the entrance to the bastion. Their dark clothes masked them in the shadows, but their voices would surely give them away if they spoke too loudly, and then they would be escorted back to Nienor's rooms. It had happened before, and she knew that her mistress was not eager for it to happen again.

"Somewhere where we have never been before, where they will not think to look for us. Somewhere where we can catch the first light of the sun." Nienor pressed her thin lips together, before they curled in a smile. "Up we shall go, Elené, up the steps and above the barracks. We have not been there before, and with luck they will not think to look for us where there are so many guards."

Elené did her best not to show her doubt, but it was difficult indeed. "There are many steps that lead to the cliff face above the barracks, my lady. I doubt that it will be easy for you."

"All the more reason to go, then!" the lady answered. "If they think that I will not reach a place, what better place to hide in? Let us go."

Her words were filled with vigour, but by the time they had mad their stumbled way through the walkways and up the many steps that led past the barracks and to the rocky outcrop set above it Nienor's breathing was becoming more and more laboured, and she leaned heavily upon her cane. As they collapsed between the rock face and the stone wall, built long ago to give watchmen shelter from the wind but rarely used any longer, she closed her eyes and hissed through her teeth. "No doubt I shall regret this before tomorrow," she muttered. "But then it is worth it, to see the sun rise."

Elené nodded in agreement as she tucked her skirts and those of her lady about them in a nest of velvet and warm cloth to keep out the chill, and settled the books into her lap. "Will you read, Lady Nienor, or shall I read to you?"

"You may read first, Elené. I must catch my breath. What have you brought for us to enjoy?" The lady was answered as she opened one of the books and began to speak softly, running her fingers down the page to keep her place. Her mistress was tired of hearing Elvish words botched and mispronounced, and it did her good to listen to poetry being recited in the manner that its authors had wished.

She softly read verse after verse as the cold plucked at her face but failed to reach the skin beneath her dress and cape, the light of the sun growing with each passing minute. When the full light of the dawn began to touch their hiding place she delighted in its warmth as she read out a praise of the sun. _"Tiro! __I a__nor hílol_! _Mornie alantië!"__(1)_

Nienor smiled as she glibly replied: _"Suilad, Arien, __i__m gelir ceni ad lín__!"(2) _She smiled and closed her eyes as the sunlight met her face. _"__Man lû vin achenitham__?"(3)_

"Surely you don't mean that, my lady?" she asked, turning to pass her the book. When she became more talkative, the lady was more in the mood for reading herself instead of merely listening.

"If the Lord Denethor had his way, I would be cloistered inside the walls of the citadel for all of my days, never to feel true sun light," Nienor retorted as she took the book from her hands. "His nerve astounds me. Did I survive through dark flames only to live in chains of stone once more?"She blinked, and smiled once more."Now, would you have me read to you in turn?"

Of course she agreed, and as her mistress began to read in her lovely low voice she pulled some oatcakes from the pouch at her belt and shared them between them. She was hungry and ate her own as quickly as she could, but Nienor bit sparsely at one, keeping the book open with her other hand all the while. After a short time they heard noise below them; many armoured feet running to and fro, and the voices of men shouting directions and orders, forming search parties.

"I think that they have found out that you are missing again, my lady."

"Indeed?" Nienor took another bite of the cake. "Then let them come and find us. It is certain that we will not go anywhere else. Perhaps they will even search down in the city before they think to look up here."

It was rather amusing to sit quietly in the cool and the sunshine and listen to the men as they ran about and grew furious, and all the while Nienor would never stop reading. It took her back to her days in the great library, when her father was teaching her to read and write and nothing around the two of them mattered, as long as they were together, and her mother would look for them in anger but would never find them in whatever part of the library they had hidden themselves. She could not help but sigh, and tuck her hands underneath her cape. Listening to Nienor speak was rather like hearing her father or other librarians once more, until she had lost that world, perhaps forever.

"How long, my lady, do you think it will be before they find us?" she asked at length as she swallowed the last of her oatcake. Nienor's words halted as she looked over at her, and smiled again.

"Are you bored of these verses, Elené? Would you rather we give ourselves up than hear another word from my lips?"

"No, indeed, Lady Nienor. I simply wonder how long we will remain hidden, and what will happen once we are discovered. Will you protest your innocence, or will you be escorted back in your pride and conceit?"

"What do _you_ think would be the best course?" Nienor had by now closed the book, and flexed her fingers. "I, of course, must stay renowned as one who is untouchable. I am to be affected by no man. I could not let myself be scolded, not even by my father. It seems that I must be proud – _if_ I am captured." A rare true smile came to her lady's face. "Oh, Elené, if only we had brought up more supplies, we might stay here forever. Or if I went down into the depths of the library, and you would come to visit, bringing food and such things."

Her mistress's rare humour had caught her, and she was lost. "And why would I not stay with you always?"

"Why, because one day you will wish to marry and have children, and you will not wish to tend to a fool who thinks that books are the sky and dust is the sun."

She protested hotly at that. "Indeed, my lady, I have no wish to marry."

"But what would you do, without a husband? You would be a fool not to want one, for how else would you live?" Nienor's smile tempted her onwards.

"I would be a librarian, like my father before me." Nienor actually laughed at that.

"Then – forgive me, Elené, but it is true – you would be a fool again for thinking those men would ever let you be what they are. So you are a fool three times over; once for not wanting a husband, once for wishing to do what a man does, and once for serving a fool who is not a man and is no longer a woman."

"Then – forgive me as well, my lady – you are a fool three times over as well; once for thinking that a woman would _want_ a husband, once for thinking that I would ever let a man tell me what to do, and once for having in your employ one who is a fool three times over."

The two of them laughed at that. Nienor laughed louder and longer than she had in a good deal of time; so hard that all at once she seized her sides and began to gasp from the pain. At once the laughter was gone, and in its wake came her hands upon Nienor's shoulders, rubbing them, soothing her breath.

She was so engrossed in keeping her mistress from choking that she took no note of the footsteps behind her, until she heard an intake of breath besides that of her lady, and she looked around to see, outlined in the sunlight, a giant wearing the winged helmet of a Guard of the Citadel, and she knew that they were caught.

Perfectly calmly she asked, "What is your name, guard?" The man stared at being so openly addressed by such a lady, in such a position, before he seemed to remember himself and said that he was Beregond son of Baranor, recently made Guard of the Citadel.

"Then, Beregond, son of Baranor, recently made Guard of the Citadel, now that you have found us, you have won the honour of escorting us back to the citadel," Nienor stated coolly from somewhere underneath her. "Elené, help me up and gather the books." All the humour was quite gone from her voice. This was how it always went. Sooner or later they were discovered in whatever corner they had hidden themselves away in, and then they were escorted – or sometimes marched – back to Nienor's rooms. Six times it had happened now, counting this one; the only reason that guards were not placed about Nienor's chambers always was simply for the fact that they had no idea when her next good day would be. Only Nienor knew that, and would act on it accordingly.

They made their way back down the many steps, Beregond in front of Nienor and Elené behind her, and no word was spoken amongst them until they stepped onto the flat paving stones that lined the ground outside the barracks. The Guards had seen them, and by the time Nienor's cane rang against the stones the Lord Boromir was hurrying towards them, a scowl upon his face. Wordlessly Nienor held out her arms to him, and wordlessly he swept her up into his tight embrace and bore her away. It was a common enough sight now, when Nienor was too weak to walk and would only allow her brothers to carry her back to her bed.

"Why does she continue to do this?" the guard, Beregond, asked, but in a manner which showed that he did not expect an answer. "Why must she tire herself again and again? It makes no sense!"

His idiocy annoyed her. Why else would Nienor wish to leave her rooms? She was tired of being kept from the world, and tired of the people that kept her there. "She misses the sunlight. She misses walking without pain. She misses living without walls all about her. Would you not wish for the same things as she?"

The guard turned to look at her in surprise, and she was just as surprised to see that he truly was not that much older than her. His hair was dark, as was that of many men in the city, and his grey eyes were wide and beautiful in his boyish face. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, and she bowed her head and hurried after her mistress and the one who carried her.

_

* * *

I am so tired again. I had thought that my strength would last, but it has not. Once more my brother must carry me back to my rooms. It is good to lie in Boromir's embrace, and bury my face in his neck, and smell his scent. He is warm, and I have grown cold. But it is not good that the people of the citadel still see me as weak. I can hear that man – that boy – Beregond, wondering at why I chose to escape from my rooms whenever I am able._

_He clearly knows nothing of a trapped animal. I will seek for any chance of flight and I snatch that time. If I were desperate enough, I would even gnaw off my foot or hand. That is what an animal does, when it is caught in a trap and cannot free itself._

_Elené understands. I hear her words, defending me. Truly I am blessed to have a maid like her. She knows what it is that I feel. She knows that I despise being lifted about as if I were a sack of produce, how I hate being seated in a chair for hours on end while the other ladies read drearily at me and I see only a glimmer of the sun, how I hate being touched by anyone but my brothers, and her. No longer am I an object of desire; now I am a burden, to be carried about the place and put to bed whenever I cannot find it in me to walk or even move too far on my own._

_Oh, how weary I feel! When I woke up this morning, there was near forgotten vigour in my limbs, speed and strength once more. I had hardly had need of that cane that I bend over these days, as Father is beginning to bend over his own. I walked more quickly, and I stood straighter. For a brief space of time, my body almost felt alive again. _

_But now, again, my time of strength is over, and there will be more days when I wake up in pain and groan for my medicine, more days when I am washed and dressed like a babe, and seated like a babe in a chair. At least I can still feed myself, or the shame would be near maddening._

_Elené is walking behind Boromir, now. I am glad that she is here with me, with my elder brother; they are two of the people who understand me the most. How I wish that Faramir was here as well! I know that he longs to be with me, but Father has sent him away into Ithilian again. I wish that he were back, to read to me once more._

_But I like to have Elené read to me as well, even more than I did when I was whole and betrothed and misery stricken. Her voice is good to hear; soft and gentle and sweet, yet strong when she needs it to be. If only I culd be more like her, more patient and more strong. Even when she does not speak, I wait for her to speak again, for the pleasure of hearing what she has to say and how she says it._

_It was good, to spend this early morning in her company. If I could not spend it with my brothers, then it was good to spend it with her. It was good to spend it reading and hearing poetry, and hiding from those who sought me, and eating oatcakes, as we have done before and as I hope we will do again._

_I do not mind the touch of my brothers, and I tolerate the touch of my father, my maids and ladies, but I find, for some reason, that it is only Elené's touch that I truly enjoy. Perhaps it is because she is the one who brings relief from the pain of my back, each morning, when she gently rubs in the balm? She is more gentle even than Boromir, who carries me now as if I were some priceless treasure._

_It is good, to be treasured. And it is good to have someone listen to you. And it is good to have someone else listen to you, and it is growing good to think of something to say so that they will listen to you and perhaps even laugh – and it is growing terrible, as well._

_My hands tighten in my gloves about my brother's neck. I will never let her see them. I will never let anyone see them. They must not see. I do not care if Elené sees my back – red and melted and cooled like candle wax – nor even if she touches it, nor if she touched any other part of me at all, but my hands are my own, and they will stay covered._

_Boromir is speaking. I begin to hear him once more. "You should not cause us so much worry, my sister. Why, Father ordered the Guard marshalled to look for you, and he will not understand why you continue to do this."_

_"I am touched that he considers my absence such a threat to the well-being of the citadel."_

_"Nienor."__ Boromir halts for an instant, to shift me in his arms. His movements jolt my legs and rub against my back, against my tender skin. I master the pain, and I fancy I do not show any sign of it. A lesser girl would squeal like a gutted cat, but I do nothing. He is as careful __as he can be, but he hardly knows I own strength, does my elder brother. "You must be serious. He was prepared to send them down into the Houses of Healing to look for you; even into the city. Do you have nothing to say to that?"_

_"Only that I am flattered that he thinks I would get that far, even if I do have three legs now instead of merely two."_

_There! I hear Elené laughing softly, despite herself. Ah, how I wish that I could say to her what I spoke in my heart, when we laughed toether in the sun above the barracks. _Melin ceni hin lîn síla i 'eladhach.(4)_ And I can see that even Boromir is smiling. His smile is swiftly gone. __"Nienor, please.__ Father will be in your chambers when we return, I fancy, and he will not be pleased. You had better be prepared to face his disapproval." He frowns at me, and I long to smooth the lines from his face. I raise my gloved hand to his cheek and I cup it and turn him to look at me. He smiles. He cannot help but smile at me._

_My poor brother.__ He was worried about me as well, I can see and tell. I wish that I did not have to cause him so much worry. Every time I flee my chambers on the days when I can walk there is always uproar, for we make sure that they never see us go and they must search for us, never knowing what we are doing. They do not know whether I have tripped and fallen somewhere, unable to get up, groaning in pain from my wounds, __Elené desperately__ trying to help me up. One of the greatest fears of my brothers, I know, is that unattended I will stumble at the height of a staircase and lose my balance and fall. It has happened once before, when I was learning to walk anew, but then Faramir was there to pull me back and against him, wrapping his arms about me so tightly that I could not help but whimper in pain, breathing deeply and causing the back of my dress to rub most cruelly. If I stumbled again in such a manner, I do not think that Elené would be able to pull me back, and then I would fall and fall and fall._

_I do not think of such things, because I am always very careful when it comes to climbing and descending stairs. I was not afraid when I was about to fall. It felt like flight. I wondered that time between breath and __breath__ whether this was what it was to be free. Perhaps I might have flown, flown away into the sky, and disappeared into the sun, if only I had been allowed. _

_But I would be lonely, up there in the sky. I would have poor company. Here I have my brothers. And I have Elené. It is worth being trapped in a body like a shell, with a back like melted, cooled candle wax, legs that will hardly support me at times, and hands that have become claws beneath the gloves that hide them, the claws that nobody will ever see, the claws that cooled before they slid off my very bones. _

_Still, I have grown tired. __Tired of more than my pain, of my weariness, of my helplessness.__ I am tired of more than myself, my back and legs and hands, and my womb that has lost its use, and so has taken my use with it. I am tired of more than my cane, my third leg, clasped in my clumsy right hand. I am tired of more than failing to think of ways to make Boromir and Faramir and Elené and my father – oh, yes, my father – hear me._

_I know what I must do to cure my lethargy._

_And here is my father, walking towards us! Someone was sent to tell him, and he is never content to wait. He does not have the anger of the old days – just as does everyone in this citadel, he treats me delicately now. He draws close to us as Boromir halts and Elené hurriedly draws back, for she is still only a servant in his eyes, though she is much more than that to me._

_My father never carries me now, but he has done so once before, and so I do not mind when one of his hands meets my shoulder and the other touches my chin, turning me to look at his dark eyes. It is only by his voice that I can tell how concerned he has been. "So, my daughter, once more you have been brought back after your wanderings. What have you to say for yourself this time?"_

_My father has not lost his arrogance; many things were burned and scorched away, but not that. "I am sorry for causing you much worry, my father," I reply, hoping that my voice betrays nothing. "__truth__ be told, I have spent these times of escape thinking deeply and dwelling on my condition. And, my father, I have come to a decision my place in the citadel and in Minas Tirith itself."I am surprised myself. It is rare than I speak so many words at once to him._

_"You have?"He is surprised too, and wary. I am ready to speak of my long hidden desire._

_"Yes. I wish to leave." _

* * *

(1) Look! The sun is shining! Darkness has fallen! 

(2) Greetings, Arien (the sun), I am happy to see you again!

(3) When will we see each other again?

(4)I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh.

**All elvish phrases (all Sindarin!) taken from arwen - undomiel dot com.**

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Small clothes, for those of you who are wondering, are underwear. As far as I am aware, during the Middle Ages, which many people compare the Lord of the Rings to, they didn't usually have pre-modern knickers (or boxer shorts for the men). I have cheerfully ignored that possibility here, for one simple fact; I cannot believe that after who knows how many thousands of years, **_**no one**_** had yet come up with the idea of underpants.**

**Living in the citadel must have been a bit tough, temperature wise, I think; according to Tolkein ****it's**_**700 **_**feet above ground level, so I'm guessing it gets pretty cold up there even during the summer. I don't even want to think about what it's like at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion, which is a reported **_**1000 **_**feet above ground level. **

**And if you're wondering why the characters are suddenly speaking Elvish, the answer is that I never saw a need to put any in until now. As I've said before, all three of the siblings were raised to be multilingual, and the two girls are merely speaking Sindarin to each other to show how much they know. ****Elené is proud of the fact that she can read and speak it, and Nienor enjoys the fact that there is someone besides her brothers wo can keep up with her when it comes to learning. In the meantime, I assume that everyone in this story is speaking Adunaic, or whatever the common tongue is in Minas Tirith.****

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****Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	14. 3005 II

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of LOTR.

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The only major difference between this story and the LOTR canon, I think, (besides Nienor herself, that is) is that Lothíriel is nine years older in this, as I have mentioned earlier. As Tolkein wrote her she was born eight years after her future husband, Éomer, but I've decided to make her around the same age as Nienor for a reason. And yes, in time, you will see what that reason is.**

**Part of this chapter, and the chapter that follows it, is inspired by Robert Harris's outstanding book **_**Imperium. **_**Normally politics bores me, but **_**ancient**_** politics is a different matter. Plus there's interesting court room scenes, which I love. **

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Lothíriel, while she was well used to the heat of the late spring and early summer in the bay of Belfalas, was near stifling. Her hair was still damp from her bath, which she had just been rising from when the call had come that the travelling party of her cousins was in sight. Her skin was damp as well, both from the heat of the water and from the heat of running to the steps that led down from the Tower of Tirith Aear to the road from the gate around the city. The cloth of her dress, though certainly cut for the warmer months, was fairly choking her, and she wished desperately for the cool of the shadowed halls instead of the hot sun on her shoulders and neck.

Still, she would not stand with her mother and father and the ladies and lords under the shades that were being held up to protect them from Arien's glare. No; she was standing at the very edge of the stairs, with her brothers, craning to see what was happening at the foot of them, amidst the group of recently arrived horses and their riders, both from the city and from Minas Tirith, and the litter which they surrounded, and the one who now bent over it. Faramir they had all seen before, more than once in his visits to the city of his mother's people; but she alone among them had had the privilege of meeting with the youngest of their aunt's children, and that was ten years past now. Since learning that Nienor would be coming to their city her brothers and even her mother had asked her about Denethor's daughter, but she had lied and protested that she could remember nothing of the day that they had met.

In truth, though, she did remember that they had spoken for a time, though not what they had spoken of, and she also recalled that Nienor had said something that had made her leave, whether in fright or disgust she truly could not recollect.

The remembrance of that time was ever present in her mind, as she saw that Faramir had at last straightened his back with his arms now full of some strange shape, which he carried to the white steps and slowly up them. As he drew nearer she made out the lines of trailing skirts and sleeves, the flap of some odd cloth about the head, and a pale face in a near black setting. She watched as the girl who had frightened her a decade before now was bourn up and up the flight of steps in her brother's arms, her own arms about his neck. She fancied that Nienor was watching her imperiously from Faramir's embrace, cold and beautiful despite the burns that had been so talked of ever since the news had reached Dol Amroth nearly a year ago. She had believed that her cousin would be far lovelier than any woman, lovelier even than her, and that Denethor's daughter would become the darling of Dol Amroth with her commanding ways and her fine looks and her knowledge of the court of the citadel; and her heart had burned with sick envy.

But when Faramir at last reached the final step, breathing heavily with the weight of his burden, Lothíriel could truly see how wrong she had been. The figure that he placed down upon her feet was not the shade of her childish memories, nor the haughty cultured beauty that she had imagined and secretly dreaded. The person who now stepped forward, leaning heavily on a dark cane and covered in swathes of velvet, moved stiffly and with little ease; as she looked about her that stiffness was also evident in her features. She was beautiful, but she was not lovely. If you had seen a picture of Finduilas, as Lothíriel had, then you would think at once of the likeness and the difference, the likeness of the faces and the difference of the spirits behind them. Nienor clearly looked at the world as something not to be endured and talked of endlessly, but to be changed, whether by her own will or that or some other. There was no peace in her, and none of the stillness which Lothíriel's mother had grown in her. Strangely, that caused some form of delight to grow inside her.

While she gazed at Nienor her cousin had turned to gaze at her in turn, and a smile grew awkwardly upon her lips as she spoke. "Well met, cousin." Her voice was low, rather like that of her brothers, and it was warm enough to put her slightly at her ease. "You have grown up well, Lothíriel. You put me to shame."

"You remember me, then?" The princess had wondered if her only female cousin had recalled the short time they had spent in each other's company. It was clear now that she did, and so she felt the courage to move closer to her, but not yet take her hand in welcome. She could see now that Nienor wore gloves, even in the great heat that surrounded them.

"Unless Prince Imrahil and the Lady Eärwen have had another daughter who is rumoured to have Elven beauty, then yes, I remember you, Lothíriel. One of my father's predictions came true, at least."

There was not time to ask further, for at once Faramir was leading his sister away from her and Elphir was pulling at her sleeve, embarrassed that he had allowed her to stray from their mother's side for too long. They hurried at once back to their parents and arranged themselves as they had been taught, in order of birth; but then they had to watch as Nienor hobbled painfully towards them, her brother beside her, her lips pressed together in the pain that Lothíriel saw she must be feeling. It was a long time indeed before her father's niece stood in front of him, and bowed as a man might do instead of bending her knee and holding out her skirts as a woman did and which she could not.

When he smiled in greeting and embraced her, the princess saw that her cousin bit her lip harshly as his arms closed tightly about her, though she did not speak or stir.

When her mother came forward to place her hands on Nienor's shoulders in welcome, Lothíriel saw her eyes go, without control, it seemed, to the scarf that covered Nienor's head and hid her hair, and she saw Nienor looking stolidly over her mother's shoulder and to the wall beyond.

When each of her brothers grasped their cousin's hand in welcome, she saw each one of them check and hesitate before taking the hand covered in velvet, no doubt wondering what lay beneath it, and she saw that her cousin's jaw bulged but a little, as if she choked something back.

When her turn came, she did not touch Nienor. She chose instead to cross her arms across her chest and bow to her in a traditional greeting, as she spoke: "I welcome you to Dol Amroth, Lady Nienor. May you breathe the air of the sea and be at peace."

She was pleased to see Nienor smile and Faramir smile as well. It was easy to see that they were brother and sister, when they did so.

Once Nienor had reached the chamber prepared for her, and once the chests containing that which she had brought with her had been carried in and those who carried them were dismissed, and her mother and the maids were exclaiming over the gowns and garments, Lothíriel found it in her to approach her cousin where she sat in a chair, spent, as her maid unfastened the thick collar at her throat. She herself sat on the stone window seat and smiled at her, and was rewarded with another smile on Nienor's part.

"You do not have such an interest in clothes as your lady mother, I see."

"I have spent close on fifteen years wearing what she wishes. When you have no choice in your garments, you do not care so much about them, I find." She watched, with some fascination, as the maid proceeded to unfasten the headscarf from about Nienor's head, and she could not help but gape as the cloth came away. She had thought before that a new change in fashion had come about in the citadel, so that the ladies wore the headdresses of commoners, but she was once again mistaken. Never in all her life had she seen hair so short, not even on the common people of the city and the land, save on young children and babes, and it was both scandal and wonder to see that her cousin's hair barely came to her ears.

"I had thought that you were following some fashion of the court, but I see now that it is not so," she admitted, as she leaned forward to see how the sun caught and shone, even on this sparse growth. She was used to seeing hair in abundance, in silken curtains or matted hanks, in waving banners when it was windy and dripping weed when it was raining, braided in any manner of design on the heads of the ladies, in a dark waterfall whenever her maids were brushing it before she went to bed. The thought of how it would be if her hair were no longer than her cousin's was strange and yet appealing, and she thought fleetingly of whether she would ever dare to do it. She wondered why Nienor chose to do so.

In the meantime, her cousin was replying. "Indeed it is not. It is because of the delicate sensibilities of the court that I must wear this thick cloth, though I feel I have no further use for it. Perhaps the ladies think that the sight of my near naked head will draw the attentions of the men away from them – or they fear it, without cause."

Lothíriel found that she recalled this dryness from ten years ago as well, but now it was tempered with some humour. Emboldened, she went on: "Does your head feel the lighter for it? I loathe the weight of my own tresses." She patted the hairstyle her maids had hastily arranged, simple but adorned with many ribbons to make up for the lack of ornate design.

"I never noticed the loss of weight, I must admit. I had other matters to deal with besides the lack of my hair."

Lothíriel cursed herself for a fool. Of course Nienor's hair would have been burned away, quite burned away, along with her clothes and her skin. As she fought for a reply to this, Nienor appeared to take pity on her as she spoke again. "Matters such as this heat; I have never known the summer to be so hot! Even in the shade it is hardly bearable."

"Ah, that is because you live in the citadel, and attire yourself accordingly. It is always cold up there, no matter the season." She stood up from her seat, and turned about slowly, holding out her arms. "In the winter we dress as you do now, for the sea winds are cold indeed and outside our homes the air is chill. But in the spring and summer it is warm enough to bare our shoulders and wear lighter cloth in our garments. We can go riding for hours and not grow hot, only wearing shades of straw on our heads to shield our skin from the sun." She plucked at one of her gauzy sleeves, and laughed as she thought of something she had longed for in the seeming eternal winter season that had passed. "There are even times when some of us go down to the shore in our shifts and bathe in the sea! We swim in the salt water and afterwards we lie out on the sand to dry, and we adorn our hair with weed and seashells."

Nienor watched her quietly as she spoke, and seemed to dwell on what to say before she replied. "It sounds as if you do know how to enjoy yourselves. But it seems that I must stay indoors, if I do not wish to die from the heat."

"Oh, no!" She stepped forward, dropping her arms. "If you do not bring the right clothes for this heat, you are welcome to have some of mine. I would not have you spend your visit hidden away from the sun and not even beholding the sea!"

Nienor put out a hand to halt her, and she did pause as she saw the sleeve fall down her arm and that the velvet of the glove stretched down to her elbow. Her generous offer all of a sudden did not seem so generous after all; how could her cousin wear the light, low-cut clothes favoured by the women of Dol Amroth if she wished so desperately to keep her hands covered? Surely there were other parts of her body that she desired to conceal as well, parts which her high collar and heavy skirts hid from sight?

"I am sorry." She drew back, feeling more foolish than ever. Who was she to offer old clothes as a gift to such a woman, who had suffered so greatly? What must her cousin think of her? Surely she believed her now to be a foolish, silly girl, who despite her protestations thought of nothing but clothes and parties and pleasure!

"Do not be. It is how I choose to be seen. I will not satisfy the curiosity of the masses by showing them my scars. I am _not_ a warning to the curious." Nienor lowered her hand, only to bring it to her temples. "In turn, I must say that I am sorry, Lothíriel. You have shown me nothing but respect and graciousness, and I have repaid you with harsh words."

"You are suffering from the heat, as you yourself said, and you must be tired from your travels. In your place, I would act in much the same manner." Lothíriel smiled and placed her hand on the carved wooden arm of the chair, not on Nienor's arm. "I'll wager that you wish to rest, and not answer my questions at this time. Once you are more at ease here, then I will come back to you once more."

It was two days before Lothíriel saw Nienor again, for the Steward's daughter slept through the night and all of the first day, and on the second morning she had woken in agony and had not been able to rise from her bed until late in the afternoon, and had stayed in her chambers. There was fear and consternation until her maid, Elené, calmly asserted to the fussing ladies that Nienor suffered many days like this, and once she received the right drink for pain she would capable of greeting the day with more grace than gritted teeth and a bitten lip.

Such was the way Lothíriel spent her own two days, for she tore apart and pieced together a green summer gown trimmed with gold thread at the neckline and the bodice and the cuffs, a gift from her father that she knew she would never wear for the colour suited her not at all, but it would suit her cousin well. She unpicked the sleeves from the shoulders to make way for newer solid ones fashioned from a more concealing cloth that an obliging maid sewed for her, and stitched part of one to the neckline of the gown to make a collar; she fashioned most of the other into a veil that would sit upon the head but leave the face uncovered. She was now glad for the many hours that her mother had sat with her and made her practice her embroidery, since by the third morning she was able to bear her work, complete with a pair of long but light gloves, in triumph to where Nienor was even then rising from her bed with her maid's assistance, and swallowing the willow bark tea Eärwen had hastily organised for her.

At first her cousin, seated in a chair and in the act of taking off her sleeping gloves, had simply gazed at her with coolness that threatened to border on disbelief, so much so that she quickly excused herself and laid her gifts upon the bed and departed, hoping fervently that they would be accepted. Her hopes were rewarded when, in time, the door was opened by Elené, smiling, and Nienor emerged in forest green upon her body and spring green upon her arms and upon her head and at her breast and throat, secured at her waist with a splendid golden belt and pinned at her chin with a fine brooch; a green woman with shining trimmings. Lothíriel made her turn quite about to see that there was no part of her body that was uncovered when she desired to hide it, and she arranged the veil to fall more flatteringly down her cousin's back, and then she politely asked if they could walk together down to the harbour?

So they walked together, out of the tower with Elené following behind them – "Wherever I go, Elené goes," Nienor had said with quiet determination – and as they walked, Lothíriel careful not to move faster than Nienor's slow tread, the princess spoke; not the inane chatter many of the ladies that surrounded her mother employed, taking delight in gossip and rumour, but of things that her cousin might enjoy, from what she had heard of her. She told her about the great library the city possessed, surely nothing compared to the library of the citadel, the library that spiralled down into part of the bastion like the inside of a long thin shell, but great enough. She told her of the teachers she had had, of music and of literature, and of politics when she had been able to listen in on the classes of her brothers. She told Nienor how her father himself had taught her Sindarin and riding and the art of sailing, how her mother had instructed her on singing and dancing and swimming. Nienor listened to what she had to say. That was an art she rarely found in people; the ability to listen. Sometimes she would speak, commenting on the similarity or the difference in their education. She did not comment on the lighter areas of Lothíriel's learning, instead choosing to ask questions of her concerning the texts she had learned from, whether she knew many languages. They slid into Elvish without thinking of it, and Elené joined in at her mistress's command, smiling at the princess's surprise.

In time they reached the harbour. Since it was still early morning there were very few men at the ships, and none that noticed the princess and two unknown maidens, one leaning on a cane. Lothíriel escorted Nienor and Elené past each of the ships, telling them its name and how old it was, who had built it and whether she had sailed on it personally. She spoke of how she enjoyed sailing, and how she could spend hours on the deck of a ship, being soaked to the skin by the water and shrieking into the wind in happiness. Nienor had paused to look at many of the water crafts, and had gone so far as to show interest in one particular vessel that was being built in honour of the coming of age of Elphir, her oldest brother and their father's heir. She agreed that the name suggested for the ship – _The Dawn Treader _– was a good title.

At length, they reached the edge of the harbour, and they stood looking out at the sea. Lothíriel loved to smell the ocean breeze; as a child of a sea city she had grown with that scent and it clung to practically everything she owned, even the dress that Nienor now wore. The tart smell of salt did not seem to offend Nienor or her maid, as they gazed at the unobstructed blue of the water that seemed to stretch forward and ever onwards into forever. On a day such as this when there were little or no clouds in the sky, it was hard to tell where the horizon began.

"The air is better here, than in the citadel," Nienor murmured, as she breathed in the sea winds. "I feel more strength in me than I have in months. And the sea…is beautiful." The breeze stirred her veil about her face, giving her a mysterious air. If she had been clad in deep blue instead of green, she would have been the picture of a Maiden of Nienna. Lothíriel had always admired the graceful Maidens whenever she had seen them in the city, making their way along the streets and walkways with the absolute confidence of knowing that no one dared to touch or harass them, wearing the robes of their office and their concealing veils to perfection. Nienor looked as if she would be suited to the office of the Mother of the Order, were it not for the fact that she lacked the tranquillity and inner peace for the role.

She said nothing of this, of course. She doubted that her cousin would be pleased, to be compared to the ones who would never marry. She had been scarred, and she had lost her betrothed in the attack which had wounded, but she was still young and beautiful, and she refused to believe the cruel whispers that had flown through the court of the ladies until her mother had violently checked them. Instead, she spoke of something that had been in her thoughts for some time. "Nienor? Do you remember when my father brought me to the citadel, when we were both children, and we talked together?"

"I do." Nienor took her eyes off the horizon to look at her, with courtesy. "From what I can recall, you were most likely the first girl of my own age that I had ever come to know. The memory of you stayed with me."

What could she say to that, without sounding rude? "I remember that your father spoke of us, but I cannot recall what it was that he said. Do you, cousin?"

"I remember. He said that your beauty would be worth a thousand words. And he said that I would wed, when he deemed the time was right. He spoke truly of you, but falsely of me." A wry smirk twitched at the corners of Nienor's lips, as she move to sit upon one of the blocks of stone that ropes of a ship were tied to. She shivered her back into absolute straightness, resting her hand upon her cane. She looked out to the sea once more. Her smile did not go away, but now it did not look wry; it seemed lost.

What to say to _that? _Lothíriel moved forward, and tapped upon Nienor's leaf-like hand. Her cousin looked up at her in surprise; it was the first time they had touched, perhaps the first time ever. "Marriage is not everything. Neither is beauty. There is more to a woman than such things. There is more to both of us than our beauty, or who we marry. It does not matter what your father says, Nienor. I often pay no heed to what the Prince says to me."

Her cousin smiled again, as she looked out once more over the sea. "You will enjoy your months here, I am certain," she went on, emboldened by this. "If you wished, I could even teach you to swim, in time."

"I thank you kindly for the offer, my cousin."

"And my brothers and I could take you sailing. You should stand at the prow of a racing ship, if only for a little time, Nienor; it is as close to flying as any of the race of Men can reach."

"That I would like to do. I should like to fly."_

* * *

I did not know what we would find when Faramir brought me, as I had demanded of our father, to our mother's city._ _This was what drew me – the thought of the unknown, the thought of that which I had not seen in all my years. I wished to see the place in which my mother had grown, the place of my mother's people, the place that she pined for, the memory that drained her of strength and of will and of life. I wished to see the family I knew that I had, but have never known._

_The buildings here are as white as those of the citadel, and yet it is lighter here than it is up there. Here, I do not feel as if I am being strangled._

_And the sea! I had never thought that any such thing could be true! Reading of a thing does not make it true, it is not true until you see it. It is the transcendent sky above made liquid, reaching out beyond the land into nothingness. It is beautiful, and it is terrible. The sound and smell of it could feed me for all of my lifetime; it could fill me with everything that I have desired. The sight of it alone could drown me as surely as if I floundered in the midst of it, for I cannot swim._

_The air is so clean here, so light. It does not feel thin or wasted, it is full and whole. It fills me as I breathe it, and it gives me new strength. I have not felt so strong since before my burning. I do not feel as if I am being strangled anymore. I feel life in me anew. It is delicious to walk and feel no great strain upon my limbs, and wonderful to feel the warmth of the sun through these new clothes that I wear. I gloried in the sun in the citadel, but now it feels as if I have not truly felt the sun in years before now._

_I can see now why it is that my mother loved this place above all others. Who could not desire to be here, always? To hear the rush and pound of the sea and the call of the gulls, and to smell the salt, and to see the water; this far more than anything I have known._

_But then, that is the trap of the sea. It calls many to it, and then it swallows them into itself. They play in its water, never fearing what might pull them under. Do they not remember the fall of Númenor, how the waves dragged the homeland under, devoured it whole and left not even the bones to float upon the surface? The sea is beautiful, but it is terrible as well. _

_Faramir does not love the sea as our cousins do. When he came to find us that morning when we strayed from the tower, patient as ever, he frowned as he looked upon the water, and he led me swiftly away. I think that he has no true reason to hate the sea, as I have to shy away from flames, or at least to wish to, but he is never comfortable around large bodies of water and so he can never truly feel at home in our mother's city._

_It is the same for me. I am set apart even here, not by my hate of water – for I do not hate it, I merely see it for what it is, life and death together – but because of what I am. I have heard the ladies whisper, wondering if what they have heard from the White City is true. Am I truly barren? And if so, what use am I to my father any longer? What use is a lady who cannot produce heirs, who would scream from a man's touch and not in joy?_

_It is not a good feeling, to know that you are useless. Lothíriel, my beautiful, kind cousin, only a year or so younger than me, is talented and capable of many things. She can dance and sing, she can sail a ship and swim against rough waves, she can ride a horse and fire a bow from an arrow. She can do so _many_ things. I can barely walk, it is hard for me to grip things, even my own prop, without pain, and my hands are too clumsy to hold items in any case. Whatever grace I had is lost. It is ashes, floating into the sky._

_Elphir has promised that he will take me on his ship, once it is finished. It is a great honour to be allowed on such a ship for its maiden voyage. My cousins are all so kind, Lothíriel most of all. When I first met her, ten years or more ago, I did not like her. I told myself it was because she talked too much, and asked infuriating questions; but now I see where my true dislike of her lay. She was happy, and I wasn't._

_But now, it is easier for me to warm to her, even now that Faramir has departed, with love and longing to see me again soon, but prepared to wait until I am ready to return to the White City. She is generous and clever, and she is full of mischief. Elené and I both agree that she is a good friend, and Elené is most admiring of her needle work. When the first dress was presented to me, she spent much time exclaiming over it in wonder. Truly, it was her admiration that made me wear it, but it was the look of delight on Lothíriel's face that made me decide I would keep it._

_I do not know why my cousin is so kind to me. I have never given her any real reason to warm to me, even when we were children. Elené really has no choice but to be respectful to me, though we have grown into friendship, into more than friendship, into what I do not know. It is the same for Ioreth, if truly we can be called friends. It is unthinkable that I do not have the love of my brothers; the only thing that is certain in our lives is that our love for each other is strong and sure and unbreakable. There was never anything we could do but adore each other._

_That someone should choose to like me, should rationally choose to wish to be near me, is something that I have never known before. My people love me, but they do not like me. They do not know me. Lothíriel might think that she does, but it does not matter to her._

_She made me another gift today, a dress the colour of cranberries, changed to suit my condition. She says that dark colours look best upon me. That is true, and it is also true that light colours look best on her, cool blues and butter yellows._

_Lothíriel looks very like the picture of my mother that I saw but yesterday. Of course I was not told that it was her, for they must have assumed that I knew what she looked like. How could I not know?_

_Now that I have seen my mother for the first time, I know why my father was always so cold to me. I looked like her, even if I do so no longer, and it was surely a cruel reminder to him of what he had lost. Perhaps that is why he is warmer towards me now, now that I am deformed and no longer whole, and no longer her._

_She was very lovely. She looked kind and gentle. Her eyes were grey, like Faramir's._

_I wish that I had known her. _

_Today Lothíriel has brought us to the forum, to the law courts that started up two days ago, and that gather cases from throughout the province who had waited all the year, and that will go on throughout the summer months when the weather is most temperate. My cousin loves to hear the aldermen debate and decide the fates of those whom they defend; she has loved to hear them ever since she was a child, or so she says. She brings me to sit next to her lady mother, Elené just behind us, in a place of honour in the marble seats behind the great seat of the dooms-man of the court. It is the one time in Dol Amroth when the Prince sits lower than another, lower and behind the one who is chosen to be the dooms-man. This year it is a man called Barahir, a leading alderman himself and a member of the Prince's council. Lothíriel has told me that they elect a new dooms-man every year, choosing one whom they feel is just and true. He sits in the high chair now, clad in rare and costly purple, watching as the alderman below us argues his point. _

_I have not seen aldermen before, but I have heard of them. The Steward often receives reports of the results in the law courts in the White City, and so Boromir learns of them and so he relates them to me. There were times when we would curl together in some alcove, stolen apples in our laps, and Boromir would tell Faramir and I of the most intriguing crimes, and the punishments that followed the trials. We delighted in hearing of things we never dared to do, and shivered at the consequences we would never suffer because of our cowardice._

_It is intriguing to watch the business of the courts. The aldermen argue with each other, and the dooms-man intercedes or lets the debate flow as he wishes. It is like a dog fight with velvet fangs, and the one who is on trial is the only one who will be harmed: a woman who sits cowered on a platform set opposite the dooms-man's seat on the other side of the forum, with a guard clutching each of her arms. She wears clothes that were once very fine but are now torn and dirty, and her hair is barely tended to. I see three little children and an older woman sitting in the crowds on the thousands of seats set around the debating ground, with dust on their hair and on their faces, signs of mourning; this alone, without the features they all share with the accused woman, show that they are her family. She is charged with killing her husband, poisoning him over many months so that she would inherit his wealth. I do not think that she will escape what will surely come to her; execution. The man who argues for her life is not very good at what he does. The one who opposes him is not that much better, but he is good enough that the woman will surely be condemned and not pardoned._

_Once her defender has finished his argument, and his opponent has finished his, both are seated. Men, members of the council of justice, walk one by one up to the dooms-man and whisper in his ear, to make their decision known. Lothíriel tells me in a hurried whisper that he hears all their thoughts, but the choice in the end is his own decision. What a dreadful task it must be, to look a woman in the eye and tell her whether she lives or dies. Who could do it? There are some whispers that run about the forum like fleet-footed rabbits and hares, but many hardly dare to breathe._

_The dooms-man stands and speaks his sentence. "Guilty." There is a great sigh, as many release their breath. The woman begins to scream and so does the older woman who can only be her mother, clutching at her hair. The children cling to their grandmother. They reach out to their mother as she is dragged away, shrieking something I cannot quite hear, as if they will pull her back from the darkness she is falling into. But it is too late, she is going, going away, and nothing will save her, not the love of her children or her mother or anyone else._

_I look away and at my cousin. Does she enjoy this sort of fare? If so, she has gone down in my esteem. Her face is pale; clearly she does not enjoy it. "What will happen to her?" I ask softly, quietly._

_She bites her lips before she answers. "She will be tied to a stake in the square outside, and wood will be heaped at her feet, and she will be burned alive."_

_She knows at once what a mistake that was, I see faintly, as I gasp and clutch the arm of my chair. Once more I feel the heat of the flames, I remember the pain of the fire against my skin and flesh and bones. The doomed woman's screams remind me of my own gasps and coughs, as she will gasp and cough as the smoke reaches her but does not choke her, and that will cruelly not choke her as she begins to shriek anew, her hair set ablaze, her skin blackening under the fire's loving touch._

_I will be sick. I know that I will be sick. I feel faint. The ground looms up before me. I must not be sick. I must not be faint. I feel a hand upon my shoulder, pulling me back; I feel the edge of the stone beneath my gloved fingers, the stone that cuts into me, hard and cold, and it brings me back to myself, gasping as if I have run as I have not done in months. "Burned alive? In Minas Tirith, murderers are hanged."_

"_So they are here, if they are men," Lothíriel says quickly. She grasps my arm, fearing I will tip forward and fall and fall away from her, to smash my head open upon the stones. "But a woman who kills her husband has committed the greatest treachery, and that demands the greatest punishment. If the council is generous she is strangled by the executioner before the wood is kindled."_

"_Is that so?" Perhaps it is the same in Minas Tirith. Who am I to say that every cloud of smoke on every level below me that I spied from my stone nest was not a living, screeching torch, or the burning shell of what had once been a woman? Who can say whether Boromir sought to spare me from knowing that there were not clean executions, not swift examples of justice, and there were those who died a death that I escaped from?_

"_I am well," I say to Elené who still has hold of my shoulder, and quickly she lets me go. "Do all such trials end in death? Do the populace of the city come to see their fellows condemned and enjoy it, then?" This beautiful city smells of salt, what else does it smell of? Of ashes? If the eager sweat of those who come to see criminals charged and done to death? Of gushing blood upon the stones?_

"_No." Lothíriel shakes her head; she at least believes what she says. "They come to see justice, Nienor. They come to see that no crime goes unpunished, and they come to see those who are innocent acquitted of their crimes. And yes, they also come to see those who acquit the innocents. Look now, and you will see what I mean."_

_I look to where she gestures. I see that the two aldermen have left, and that another man in dark robes has come out onto the floor, to the murmurs of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, who watch. I see that he is as different from the last two as a war charger is from two palfreys. He is tall and his hair, under his black cap, is iron grey and reaches to his shoulders in flowing waves. He is built powerfully like a man of war, and he walks like a soldier, though he carries no sword, though a page follows after him with a pile of parchments. He looks about him. His face is pale, as pale as my skin that was not burned, but hard, the set of his mouth is firm. He is perhaps forty years of age, perhaps fifty, but it is not his age nor his appearance which makes me breathe in, so much as his air of authority and confidence._

"_Who is that?" I ask of my cousin, my eyes never leaving the man as he turns completely about, taking in the full view of his audience. Some of them are cheering by now, shouting something. "Hail the king! Hail the king!" they cry. Finally he turns to the dooms-man, and those who sit about him, and bows his head so slightly it makes me wonder. Who _is _he? Surely not the lost King of Gondor, as the crowd would have me believe? I think of my prediction of Lothíriel's marriage prospects, young as we both were, and I am puzzled greatly._

"_That man is Galdor, the uncrowned king of the law courts – can you not tell? Other aldermen see the courts as a stage for them to perform on; he sees it as a stage for him to direct. Watch him, and you will see."_

_As soon as Galdor begins to speak, I do see. He is different from all the others in that he does not move about or stride up and down as he speaks, like a dancer, but rather saves his strength. He barely moves, gesturing only with a finger and a thumb pressed together. He keeps his head straight, but his eyes are not fixed for they rove the audience, watching them as they watch him. And his voice! It is not flowery, as was the speech of the others; it is straight and direct like an arrow splitting green wood. He does not need to go to great lengths to prove his points in the trial of the young man who has been brought into view in the vacated platform. He says what is needed, in the way in which it should be said. It is fascinating. I lean forward and my lips part as they always do when I feel interested, as I draw in further breath._

"_He is good," I comment._

"_He is _very _good," Lothíriel corrects me. "He taught all three of my brothers rhetoric by the command of my father, and he even schooled me in the basic ideas of it. He believes that crime is not simply hatched in the heat of the moment; the state of the mind can be brought to such an act by harsh treatment when young. He rarely if ever loses his side in a trial, and you can see why that is so."_

_Oh, Lothíriel, my cousin, light of all my days, guide to my deliverance, I do see. I see very well. I see you and I see the one who will help me. I think of my brothers and I see the ones who will support me in this. I see Galdor and I see the man who will hand me my future and all that it will hold._

_I wish to learn to do what he does. I wish to learn how to hold the attention of thousands, not by my beauty or my grace but by my voice and my wit alone. I wish to learn the art of argument, and of proof, and of conclusion. I wish to learn the arts of an alderman, and then I will become more than that, far more._

_I will tell no one of this, save perhaps for Elené. When we leave I will find out where he stays in this white ocean city, and tomorrow Elené and I will visit him. I will ask him to teach me, as I he taught my cousins, and I will do the rest. Surely he will not refuse me this?_

_And if he does refuse me, he will learn that I am not to be denied. Not any more._**

* * *

Aldermen are basically the Middle Earth equivalent of lawyers (that I made up). A dooms-man is the equivalent of a judge, and also a reference to that great big old dooms-man himself, Mandos. Men don't get judged by him, so they make their own substitute.**

**I discovered, while writing this chapter, that I rather like Lothíriel. It seems that other writers on this site do as well. Considering that Tolkein gave us practically no information about her** **- not even her date of death, which I think is a bit negligent – there's an awfully large amount of fiction written with her as a main character. I think the appeal of the unknown largely cuts in here, since we can give Lothíriel whatever temperament we like with impunity!**

**Tolkein also never gave us the name of Imrahil's wife, so I considered that, since Elven names were rather popular in Gondor at this point (i.e. Ecthelion, Finduilas) the names I picked would not be wholly unlikely. (Eärwen is the name of Galadriel's mother, and Galdor is the name of one of the most important Elves in Gondolin, the leader of the Folk of the Tree; said to be the bravest Elf in the city after Turgon himself.)**

**In England up until near the end of the eighteenth century, women were often burned for murdering their husbands, while men were hanged for the same crime. Here's how it worked: if a man committed treason against the king he was hung, drawn and quartered (if you don't know what **_**that**_** is, read any basic history book of the Tudors and you'll soon find out!) while women were burned. However, killer women could also commit **_**petty treason**_** against their own personal lord and master, a.k.a dearly departed hubby. This law was finally abolished in 1789, when women gained equal rights – the right to be hanged for murder.

* * *

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress.**


	15. 3005 III

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of LOTR.**

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**I am **_**so **_**sorry that this took nearly three months to write. I had a really bad case of writer's block, and then even when I didn't have writer's block I was stuck on this, so I worked on other things for a while. Then I decided 'to hell with it' and finished this as best as I possibly could for you all, because I love you so huggy muggy much. I will perhaps try to lengthen it later on, but don't count on it.**

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There was peace here, so far away from Arien with her spying eyes and her vicious heat. He liked to be surrounded by stone, by fine materials, for shields against those who would pry and steal his secrets. He knew that such things were only an illusion for there was one who would always find him, no matter where he dwelt or hid – but it gave him comfort, something he had never sought for until five years ago.

And, truth be told, he also enjoyed being surrounded by the smell of parchment and books. With such a scent and such surroundings came power, and with power would come, in time, everything that he had always desired and that he had come to desire.

"Would you leave the books that you have found, Saruman, and return to the sunlight to break your fast once more?"

He made the show of perusing one final scroll, before emitting a sigh and standing to answer the Steward's question and walk with him. "I believe that I will accompany you to repast, Lord Denethor. I have spent far too long in these archives, and I require sustenance other than knowledge." He grasped his staff from where it rested, and together they walked, and together they left the shadows and the dust of the archive behind as they made their way back through the library.

It had been good to come to Minas Tirith, if only to follow Gandalf and find out what his true design was. The White City had not changed greatly in the time since he had last visited it, and nor had its library; thirty years and more as well it was now. Enough time for an infant to grow into a man, and for grey to come into a grown man's hair, and yet it was but a little time to those who were immortal, and even less time to he. Denethor was the Steward now that Ecthelion was dead, the twenty sixth ruling Steward, and if Sauron had his way and regained his power during the reign of this one he would be the last ruling Steward as well; the darkness would stretch out from Mordor and from the very libraries where he had spent his latest visit and the White City would no longer be white but dark and red, another Minas Morgul. 

Curumo from whence he had come, Curunír to the Elves and Saruman to Men paced alongside Denethor once he had parted at last with ancient texts, up the stairs and towards the free light, and smiled to himself as he answered more of the man's simple questions of what went on in the world beyond Gondor. As if the man did not know the answers to his questions without needing to ask them! He recognised the look of one who had gazed into a palantír, even if Denethor himself did not know how he had marked himself out to one who knew how to see. Surely some might now have wondered why there was such greyness in Denethor's hair, for one of the line of Húrin, or such lines carved into his skin and flesh! But then, what could they know of the truth, and what could the Steward tell them of it?

How greatly he had changed from the young man who had met his eye with such ease the last time that they had met, when he had been but two and thirty! He had been tall and lordly and even rather beautiful in the noble way of the Men of lost Númenor then, more lovely by far than his father, worthy perhaps even to sit in the seat under the marble helm instead of in the dark stone chair beneath the throne. And now he walked with a stoop in his shoulders, and there was more silver than sable to his hair and dust that floated from surrounding books and shelves settled on his velvet sleeves, and the hand that clutched the rod of office instead of the hilt of a bright sword was withered and pale. A hand quite like Saruman's own, in truth. He found it quite amusing that in so few years such a man could come to such a waste, crumbling away in his echoing hall, a mere vestige of the greater days of Gondor. Under him Gondor and the White City endured but they no longer matched the splendour of the past, and never would they do so again.

In truth it was sobering as much as amusing that such a man as Denethor had come to this state, shrewd as he was and cunning as Saruman believed him to be. If he did look into the palantír as often as his general state suggested he was truly astonished that Sauron had not already ensnared him in his grasp and made him bend to his will, and he only one of the race of Men. To hold the proud Steward of Gondor under his sway, and 

thus have Gondor as his own, would no doubt be a source of great satisfaction and entertainment to the Fallen One.

He hardly dared think of that one, so close to where _he_ was. No doubt that great eye was watching him even as he conversed with another who would soon fall into the same trap that had caught and held him. This would be even more wonderful to _him_ than many of his other plots; a rotten apple standing next to a fruit slowly going to seed.

"And Rohan? How does the land of the horse lords fair?" He brought his mind back to the matter in hand, for now. The Steward spoke as easily as he could in the presence of one he had known when he was both boy and young man, but Saruman knew well that the failure of the marriage alliance with Rohan had left bitterness and ill will in both the lands, despite the Oath of Eorl. The king of the horse lords and his son now did not look on Gondor with a friendly eye, and Denethor had marked and condemned Rohan as perhaps a danger to his realm. It was a move that both he and his supposed lord would have been proud to carry off if only they had been allowed. That was the greatest joke about Men and even about Elves; at times it was not even necessary to corrupt them to a purpose other than their own, when they brought about the corruption so very well themselves.

"From what I know, Théoden son of Thengel fares well, and so does his heir," he said with great good humour, as his staff tapped upon the stones and echoed Denethor's rod. "Théodred son of Théoden remains unwed. No woman in Rohan is good enough for his or his father's favour, it would seem." He was rewarded with the smallest curl at the corner of the Steward's mouth, before his smile was forced away and he spoke again. 

"Have you found what you sought when you came here, then, Saruman the White? For I would think you would tire after three days of study, and would long for the familiar scene of Isengard."

He was thrown by the sudden abruptness of the question. For the three days that he had examined much of the contents of the library of the bastion Denethor had raised no objection, even welcoming him as he would surely never do to Olórin, or whatever he was calling himself these days. That the Steward should now turn what might be suspicion on him was perhaps only natural, but it was worrying too. He could not be away from Isengard for too long, yet it would be hard to find what exactly Olórin had sought for if he had only few days to make his own search, a search that preyed upon his mind despite all his own plots and schemes.

For now, it would be far safer not to arouse the suspicion of the man beside him, and so he smiled merrily as he replied. "I have indeed, Lord Denethor. Truly, the library of the city is wonderful indeed; not even in my own tower have I amassed such a wealth of learning. I am sorrowful indeed that I am not allowed to take such treasures as I have found away with me."

Denethor looked at him from the wrinkled corner of his eye, before nodding in satisfaction. No doubt he was wild to know what exactly the Maiar in disguise had been seeking out, but if he had not learned enough from the spies that he had set after him in the library then it was a lesson for the Steward in training those who would see for him. And he had a far greater way to find what he wished rather than a bought librarian, when he would remember it.

Perhaps Denethor even suspected that he and Olórin sought for the same thing and for the same reason. Well, if such was so, surely no harm would be done if he asked of the 

Grey Pilgrim. "I have heard that I am not the only one of my order to come here seeking knowledge. Was not Mithrandir himself here in these very archives only yesteryear?"

It pleased him to watch Denethor halt, if only for the span of a moment, before he nodded slightly, acknowledging a hit, and walked onwards. "He was indeed, Saruman. And since the yesteryear you speak of, he is welcome in the citadel and her library, when-so-ever he wishes."

Now it was his turn to acknowledge a hit, a hit that took away some of the assurance that he had held. Denethor's distaste for Olórin had been well known to him even before he had dared to look into the stone of Orthanc, five years ago now; why now should the Steward have warmed towards him, enough to allow him into the archives of the great library willingly? But then of course, Olórin had aided in the healing of Denethor's daughter. The grey one had always had greater luck with the Elves than with Men, unlike himself, and yet the fellow Istar had managed to find a way past even the most stubborn of the hounds of the weaker race. 

"Indeed?" He made his reply as glib as he could. "And was his errand similar to my own, do you know, Denethor?" It all but called the man out, since it hinted that Denethor had been curious enough to ask outright or subtle enough to use his spies, not only in the case of Olórin but in his own quest as well. It was a jibe without a jibe, and he wondered how the Steward would take it. Again the man's head nodded, another hit.

"Out of respect, I did not inquire. Perhaps you might ask my younger son, who saw fit to speak with Mithrandir during that time." Denethor took two steps at that, and then three, as if he would walk away and leave him behind and yet could not do that for fear of what the wizard might do next. And he followed, for what could he do otherwise? 

And then, what should they see standing in the alcove ahead of them, but two young men, one a warrior and one seeming a scholar? Both of them were dark haired, pale skinned, clad in rich robes; one wore a cloak about his shoulders, sword at his side and a familiar looking horn at his belt that had once been carried by his father and his father before him, the other had fingertips stained black with ink and his hair was tied back as many of the librarians did at their desks, and both of them were bent over a piece of parchment the scholar held, intent upon the words there written. Both of them looked up sharply at the step of their approach, and Saruman saw Denethor's face upon one and his will in the other, and marvelled despite himself at the sight of the Steward's sons. 

"How now!" The Steward did not sound pleased to see his sons, as he paced forward. "What do you two do here, so secretly?" Saruman noted with interest that at once the elder of the two moved to stand in front of his brother, as if shielding him, but that it was the younger who gazed at his father with calmness and authority on his face in his eyes, and who replied.

"It is no secret, sir. It is a message from our sister, Lady Nienor, that we read. It only came to the city this morning, and Boromir brought it to me so that we might learn of how she fares together." The eyes of the younger man moved to him, and at once Saruman knew that he would little or no luck getting what he wished from this one. The wizard's pupil, some called him, and Saruman could see how true that was, for few could look him in the eye – and he only one of the race of Men! The older one, Boromir, did not have such a strong gaze, and he knew that here was the weaker of the two, for all that he tried to shield his younger brother from their father. Numenor's blood did not run true 

in this one, it was clear. If this family was to be brought down, here perhaps was the weak point, the fault line.

"Indeed? And what does your sister say?" Denethor reached forward for the piece of parchment, and Faramir appeared to give in, for the time being, and let the Steward take it, tucking his hands inside the sleeves that scholars used to warm their cold hands after long hours of work.

"She is well, my lord," Boromir said quickly. "She says that she is more at ease by the sea than she has been in the city. She is eating and sleeper far better than she used to do."

"Mithrandir could not heal all of her wounds, then?" 

"True, Saruman, he could not. But our sister heals herself. It is unfortunate indeed, that she is not here to meet you." But Boromir did not sound remorseful at such a calamity; rather his words were calm and clean, without expression. He was not a fool, whatever else he was. Denethor's lips pressed together as he nodded, but he started at what his son had to say next. "And she says too, that she is receiving instruction from Galdor."

"Galdor? The one they call the king of the law courts?" Saruman could have laughed at the calm look on the face of the Steward as he glanced quickly through the words, a look which clearly hid something much deeper. He felt that he had to comment.

"What a brood you have raised, Lord Denethor! A warrior, a scholar and a daughter who would become an alderman. The family of the citadel will be something to be feared indeed."

"I hope so indeed, Saruman. They are my children, and they should be worthy of whatever they meet. They are the flowers of the citadel, after all." Denethor handed the letter back to his younger son, who took it without a smile. "Three bright flowers, and all have their thorns to ward off any who would try to devour them." The eyes of the men, old and younger and youngest, met and locked, and he was irritated to find that something passed between the three that he could not decipher. Three men, only Men, and they could hide in some manner from him! 

Well, no matter. The withered Steward of Gondor, his feeble sons and his crippled daughter would all be confronted by the Shadow, and they would all fail and fall, every one of them.

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_My dearest and most beloved brothers, I am certain that this message finds you well and in good health and spirits, and I long for the time when we shall see each other again, when the summer ends and fall begins. It is hard to look about me each day and see people that look so like you, but who are not you; I miss most cruelly my favourite bearers. Not that I miss only your strong arms! I miss too your smiles, your voices as you scold me or praise me. I miss that chance that we have had to be together, but you must understand that to leave, for now, was the only thing that I could do. Perhaps it will seem a lifetime and perhaps it shall seem no time at all until we are together once more, the three flowers of the citadel that we are, even if this bloom has chosen to be replanted and grow elsewhere for a time. _

_First, let me say that for you to survive the heat in the lowlands, my dear ones, proves that you are worthy indeed to be captains of men. I truly did not know how deeply privileged I was to live all my life in the cold dead citadel, instead of in these living heat-baked lands. How hot it is, and how curious that a flower should grow, however shakily, in a world of stone, and yet wilt when it is brought down to the green earth and the scorching sun! I have had to shed my heavy petals and don far lighter garments to escape _

_being cooked. Would you recognise your little sister in these fine gauzy garments I now wear, light as a leaf in the autumn wind, or a seed being blown to a new place? You must excuse my over decorative language; this is merely a taste of what I have been hearing from the law courts. The men there prance about like maidens at a festival. I would not be surprised if they wear flower scents! This is a city of perfume as much as ships, since the air is so hot and not so clear and the people grow hot in their turn. _

_The city of our mother and her people are good to me, so fear you not. Our grandfather Adrahil, retired from his duty as the Prince though he is, is still quite fit and able, and in the evenings he leans upon his cane and I upon mine and we make a very fine six legged creature as we walk beside the shores. Perhaps his mind is not so fit, however, for there are times when he calls me by the name of our mother and does not see his mistake. I sit by his chair and we speak together of many things; he tells me stories of our mother when she was my age and when she was younger, or he reminds me of things he thinks that I do not remember. He misses you greatly, and he has told me to send you his love as well as my own and I have promised to do so. Our grandfather reminds you of the beaches you played upon when you were both boys, and bids you find a time to come and see him once again. _

_It would be a good thing, I think, if that came to be._

_Our uncle and our aunt and all our cousins have given me a fine welcome. They are all clever and noble, and so far I have not offended them in any manner. Elphir has agreed to take me sailing on his ship when it is given to him, and there will be two strong male cousins on either side of me when I step aboard, and the day will be calm, so I will not stumble or grow ill, and if I do I not will try to copy your actions on your first sea voyages. Our grandfather and uncle still laugh when they speak of it, and they have told me of the times so often it is as if I were there. Learning from your examples, I know what I must do not to empty my stomach._

_Our cousin Lothíriel has been nothing but kindness itself, and I find that I grow to like her more with each day. Perhaps the sea has washed the bile out of me, what say you? Or perchance my bile is only washed away for her, for I find that I am as sour to the Dol Amroth breed of clucking pigeons as ever I was to the ones that roost in the citadel. The Lady Eärwen is gracious indeed and clever, but I wonder that she can stand to think with such a rabble about her all the day. If such is the true duty of a true lady, then I give thanks that I am no lady at all. Now I know why you do not stay in the city for long, Faramir; it would not do to drool at the sight of so much flesh on display to the air and to watching eyes. Surely they must catch a chill as well as men with such a method?_

_Well, enough of them, for we three have no interest in lovely and empty women, do we? I have done far better things that sit indoors for all the day. I have found a teacher for myself, a teacher who will shape me into what I need to become. The third day of my stay here I was blessed enough to see Galdor, the one they call the king of the law courts, speak at a trial, and his words – they set something to growing in my mind. I decided that I must learn all that he had to teach me. Aldermen need their voices and their mind more than their bodies and their hands, so that is fortunate for me, is it not? _

_Galdor is a very proud man and he does not warm easily to others of the race of Men. He walks quickly as if he would wish to get away from anyone who tried to follow. The only time that he shows any kind of life or feeling is when he is in the courts, or when he is teaching me what he knows. He has no love for anything, I think, besides the laws and _

_justice of Gondor, and the glory and joy in a case well won. I do not think that he likes me, but I find that I do not care, brothers mine. It does not matter if he likes me or no, so long as he teaches me well._

_I am his pupil for the time being, in the mornings and the evenings when he is not in the law courts. At first he would not have me, but I argued through one day and into the night as if I were proving myself worthy of apprenticeship, and at long last he agreed, though not without some grumbling. He said that he did it only since I am the daughter of the Steward, and he will only teach me as much as he had taught our cousin Lothíriel, no more and for no other reason._

_I have given him reason to change his thoughts, I hope. I have done the movements and exercises that all apprentices to aldermen must do, for we must make our lungs fit and strong. The pain I ignore, and truly it grows less and less of consequence to me as my voice grows stronger and louder. You will both be outraged to learn that he makes me ascend and descend flights of stairs while reciting pieces of poetry and prose; this is to give force to my chest so that I may speak more clearly and that I will not lose my breath so easily. He has even taken me down to the shore and made me stand as far away as the ear is capable of hearing and recite my pieces, all with the roar and crash of the oceans, as if Ossë himself is reluctant at my lessons; it is the nearest thing, Galdor says, to the sound of the thousands of people that sit in the law courts and hear the cases. I must be able to speak over them all, so that they will listen to I alone and not to each other or to themselves. He teaches me how I must hold myself; there must be no moving about when I speak, which will pose no problem to me, no _womanlike _gestures – I truly hope that you find this as amusing as I do – and no distraction from my voice. Everything that I say must be remembered, not everything that I do. Words before deeds, Galdor says, always words before deeds._

_I grow stronger with each day. I eat more than I ever did in the citadel, meat and fish, for Galdor says I must give strength to my body so that my words will reach further. I sleep well, and my nights are dreamless for I am so tired and fulfilled. I have never had to do more with my body, and yet I find that I enjoy it. Now that it is harder than ever for me to move, I find that I look forward to it with delight rather than with pain._

_I do not know if, by the end of the summer, Galdor will have taught me all that I wish to know, but that matters not. When I return to Minas Tirith, I will go to the lore-masters and I will gain lessons from them in their turn. And then, when I have learned all that I wish to know, ah then, what shall I do next? I do not know yet, but I do not care, for it is all so wonderful and new, and I am hungry for the time I have._

_I beg your forgiveness that this letter is so short, but already I am called for more to do. I will write to you again when I am able, and when there is time, for this message has cost me much thought that I should have directed towards another piece of prose and how to make it appeal to a crowd. But I do not regret this time, and I do not think it wasted. Write to me as I have written to you, and tell me all that has happened in the days that I have been gone. Tell me of everything and anything, or anything that you can bear to put to parchment. I am famished and parched, my brothers, and I must fill my belly and my mind! _

_I send my love to all those in the citadel that love me, but I send it first to you, my brothers. Until we meet again when autumn falls, think of me by the seashore, a veil upon my head and a smile upon my lips, as I think of many things and I think of you._

_Your sister, Nienor._

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**I **_**love**_** the thought of Faramir having to tie his hair back to stop it from getting in his way when he's working. Tee hee.**

**I chose to have a letter instead of a stream of consciousness for this chapter; partly because this is about the halfway mark of Book One (and what a long time it's taken to get here!) and partly because people were pointing out that we haven't really seen that much interaction between the siblings, which is true. This is merely an example of how Nienor speaks to her brothers by this point; partly teasing and yet affectionate at the same time with lots of little injokes, knowing that they're **_**very **_**protective of their little sister and won't mind if she makes gentle fun of them. Even in letters she's completely comfortable with them; they're probably the only two people in her life than she trusts implicitly and without fear. **

**Tolkein states in 'The Council of Elrond' in the second part of 'The Fellowship of the Ring' that many of the Istari had been welcome in Minas Tirith, especially Saruman: 'Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords of the City'. This particular encounter between the two is of course invention on my part, but nevertheless it isn't wholly unlikely that Denethor and Saruman would have met at least once and possibly more in their lives.**

**This****chapter is also a chance for me to draw something of a comparison between the two. Saruman is quite a hard character to write, which is why I doubt I'll be using him very often. It's very difficult to get into his head, even though we know why he acted as he did; he wants power. Denethor, meanwhile, is a character I feel great sympathy for – though you might not be able to tell that from the way I have characterized him – admittedly more in the books than in the film. Many readers don't like him because he's horrible to Faramir and favours Boromir, sends him on a suicide mission in which all the other soldiers involved get killed (and get their severed heads thrown back over the walls later), only feels sorry for what he has done when Faramir is dying, and eventually goes mad and commits suicide on a pyre. This is also true; Denethor is not a particularly nice person, as I have done my best to show. In my opinion, being nice often isn't an option when you're the ruling Steward of quite a large part of Middle Earth that's being threatened by an ancient evil.**

**However, I also like to focus on his good points: he adored his wife and he **_**does**_** love his sons and in this case Nienor (even if he has pretty odd ways of showing it), he does a relatively good job of ruling Gondor, considering the context of his time in power, and – a real point in his favour – he has remarkable strength of will. Saruman has already been caught and corrupted by Sauron at this point in my story and in the books, when he dared to look into the palantír at Isengard; but Denethor, who has also looked into the stone of Minas Tirith by this stage, is not, and ignoring the premature aging and general angst that develops in his life he continues to keep control of himself until Faramir is injured. Thus, Denethor is a Man who has a greater strength of will than an honest-to-goodness **_**Maiar, **_**even if he is clad in flesh**

**If that isn't a strike for Men, I don't know what is.**

**(Secretly, however, I have a vision of these two sitting and drinking tea together in an elaborate tea room, like a picture of Peter O'Toole and Richard Harris that my dad cut out of a magazine and saved.)**

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**Reviews for the half-irish seamstress!**


	16. 3007 I

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of LOTR.**

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**Warning: A bit of what might be considered mushy stuff ahead, people. If you aren't happy with it then I'm sorry, but romance (or at least non-melodramatic romance, for all of you who have read my gothic fantasy _L'epoux cadavre_ -coughshamelessplugcough) is not exactly my forte. Rest assured, this is _not_ going to turn into a romance fiction, for reasons seen at the end.**

**And, yes, more of things hinted in a previous chapter. Ku ku ku.**

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_**3007**_

The sun was already sailing on her evening arc when Beregond at last heard the noise of cloth that moved slowly, and let the worry that he had held for such a great time go from him in a sigh. Elené moved even more slowly than other women when she was thoughtful, a habit that she learned from his mistress, and surely no one in the citadel or in Minas Tirith moved more slowly than the Lady Nienor. He sat up from where he had leaned back against the wall, setting his helmet down upon the ground and doing his best to look as if he had all but forsaken any idea of their meeting this evening, and that he would go back to the barracks and wait another sennight to see her close and hear her words spoken to him, rather than to the one she attended.

The late sun set her brown hair on fire as she stepped into the courtyard, and it traced across the curve of her cheek and her forehead as her head turned and she looked about for him, before her eyes alighted upon him where he sat upon the bench. She smiled in greeting, a soft smile that gently curled her lips as she made her way over to him, her skirts rippling behind her as a wave did in the wake of a boat. How she could do such a marvelous thing he could not reckon; many of the other maids and ladies merely held their skirts out before them when they needed to climb or run.

"Greetings, lady," he said, rising to greet her. She put her hand upon his arm even as he was steadying himself and he sat again, the feel of her flesh warm and burning even through the cloth of his tunic. It was truly strange how he could behave like such a green youth whenever she was near. There had been other girls before Elené, certainly, but never had he felt as if the fever that had nearly killed him as a boy had returned to heat his bones whenever he saw the cold blue of her eyes.

"Please, good Beregond, do not call me such a thing. I am not a lady, but rather a lady's companion, and partly a handmaiden too. If I were the first rather than the last two, it would have taken even longer for me to reach you, for I may go where a lady may not." Elené seated herself decorously at his side, after moving his discarded cloak to lie between the two of them, and the cloth of her dress brushed against his leg above his boot. "Have you been lonely without me at your side, my favorite guard? I am sorry that I did not come at our customary time and caused you to wait, Beregond. Have you it in your heart to forgive my fault?"

"Need you ask? Think of all the times that you have sat in wait yourself for my arrival that would not come because my duty called, and then consider that we have evened our score by a little." He stretched out his legs to relieve himself of the distraction of her skirts, the stone cool under his heated palms and the air soft upon his face, and the scent that she carried with her, the smell of old forgotten rooms and what lay within them. There were streaks of dust upon the swell of her bodice, bright against the dark green cloth, and now that he looked at her clothes rather than her face he could see that there were deeper patches upon the sleeve of her right arm as she brought her hand up to her brow.

Swiftly he brought his mind back to her words, for now she spoke. "What have you done since last we met, and what has happened to you? What is the greatest news amongst the Third Company of the Citadel? Oh! Did you see and speak to the Lord Faramir when he returned to the citadel this morn, after his travels in Ithilien?"

"Not so quickly!" Beregond raised his hands to quell the gush of her words, smiling all the while. "Indeed I did see the Lord Faramir, for I was on duty when he ascended the steps to the great hall to speak with the Steward, and I heard later that there are more and more servants of the Enemy abroad from Mordor; but I did not speak to him, for such as me do not speak at such times to such as he, and certainly not in the presence of his lord father."

"Oh, yes." She frowned at all of that, her brow now lined. "I forgot myself. I may speak freely in front of my mistress, but I do not do so in front of the Lord Denethor, of course not. Well, will you answer my other questions?"

"But of course. In the time since we have parted," he went on, counting on his fingers, "I have moved into new and more spacious barracks, as I am no longer among the lowliest of the guards, if indeed there is such a thing as a lowly Tower Guard. I have been congratulated on having gained my new rooms, and for coming thus far with such success. And the greatest news amongst the Third Company is that some members who shall not be named here were discovered to be gambling and winning at dice."

Elené clapped her hands as she grinned in mischief. "You lead a quiet life indeed, Beregond, and you sound as if you are not greatly pleased by it. Would you prefer to go back to being an ordinary soldier of the plains having never been discovered by the Lord Faramir, if only to taste excitement and adventure once more?"

"No, I thank you; I am quite content to stay in the citadel with beauty in every garden and hall and every courtyard." Too late he realised what he had said, and looked over to his companion quickly to see her reaction. Though she grinned still it was slighter than before and the bridge of her nose between her eyes had wrinkled as she looked at him, as if she would question what it was that he had said. Quickly he went on speaking. "And tell me, what have you done? Has your time been well spent?"

"Indeed!" He listened as she spoke eagerly of journeys to the great library, of the visits that had been paid to her lady by many law-men, and of all the things that she planned to do and to achieve as he asked of each one and of how further Denethor's daughter was to gaining her wishes. Valar forgive him for thinking such a thing, but the Lady Nienor could not know how fortunate she was to have someone who spoke so highly of her, who let their regard for her show so plainly, and such a woman as Elené!

And then there were the things that the lady had chosen to study for that week. "And we have been learning the shared language of the peoples of the Haradrim, for they have a common tongue even as we do, did you know that?"

"The common tongue of the Haradrim? Is it hard to learn such thing?" And there in that small courtyard that had known so many discussions and arguments, his own small sun taught him some of the words of the lands of the far south, guttural sounding words that she assured him meant types of greeting and earth and fire and other things that made up the world, and she gazed up at the sky in wistfulness as she told him that her mind had been drawn by what she had heard of the lush forests that lay in those far of countries, and how unfortunate it was that she would not see them.

"There is still Ithilien," he suggested, but she shook her head.

"If things are as bad as you say, then there will soon be no more merry holidays to ride out upon."

"That is true." He shook his head as he remembered his times outside the city, travelling though lands so beautiful and yet so deadly, constantly looking enemies that had claimed the woods as their own. "For my part, I love the trees and yet I do not love that which they might hide, all unwilling. If a forest is dark, then I would long for it to be light once more."

"So would I, for we are of the race of Men and delight in the sun, while the Elves are happiest in starlight and shadow. Is it not so sad? The only trees I will ever see in any number are the forests of paper in the library. When I was younger, my father would chase me in and out of the shelves, pretending to be a great flapping crow."

Her father. It was rare that she spoke of that man, and perhaps she did so only in front of him. "You miss him still, do you not?"

"I miss who he once was, and what he meant to me. I miss the one who taught me to read, and to write, and to speak in Sindarin. There are times when we pass him in the library, my lady and I, and he looks at me, and I feel nothing." There was the sharpness within the sweetness that so few people saw, but which had first truly caught his attention when they had first met, as much as the becoming blush that had covered her face after she had defended the choices of her mistress. Elené had known her share of failure and disappointment, and it had given her resolve that lent strength to their agreements and their disputes.

But at last he felt the need, for his curiosity had been growing ever greater, to ask, "What befell your sleeve, Elené? Surely that was not the design that it was fashioned with?"

At first Elené did not reply, for all that she opened and closed her mouth as if she wished to do but could not bring herself to say the words. But in the end they came. "The Lady Nienor. She…was out of temper. She was in much pain this day and her hands were stiff, and by mischance she knocked ink over some pieces of parchment that were very valuable to her, and over my arm for I was sitting by her. She was angered and she slammed her hands against the table, and she could not use them for much time for the agony that she felt." She looked away, and her eyes opened and closed rapidly as she gazed into the evening sun. "I stayed to give her comfort, and that is why I am so late to meet you. She is dour and sad. She needed my presence."

The sight of her face as she turned back to look to him was enough to make him turn away his eyes, as his chest grew tight. There was no peace on her face, no contentment, but only thoughtfulness close to dreaming, as if she were no longer with him but back in her lady's chambers, seated by her and giving her, as she said, 'comfort'. For all the times that they had met together and talked together, laughed and argued, had he ever caused such an expression to come to her face?

"Is the lady plagued in such a fashion, then? I have heard that always she is calm and reserved."

"Not always, Beregond, not always. She masters her pain and indignities very well, but there are times, certain rare indeed, when they master her." Elené looked down at her fingers, short and stocky. "Once, when she had upset some papers across the floor, she swept a glass that had held wine I had placed at her side off the table to break on the floor; and then she wept when I cut my hand picking up the remnants and she wept more for she could not help me with my wounds, for she now lacks the skill for delicate work of any kind." Looking up to him again, she went ever onwards. "I should not have told you such a thing, but it is true and it is but a small outburst against such that would have a weaker man or woman wretched and bed-ridden."

"Is it not difficult for you at such times?" He had not known of this. Why had she not told him such things? Why had he never seen any cuts upon her hands, and why had she not shown them to him? Warily he reached over and touched her palm, and she did not pull away but let him see her fingers and the white lines that still ran across two of them. "How do you bear it, when she is so vile tempered?"

She pulled away at that, and she stood up and turned away from him. "She is not. Do not dare to say such a thing! Oh, I should not have told you!" She put her hands to her face and flinched away from his fingers as he hastily stood up and reached out for her shoulder. "I know what the ladies say, for they are spiteful crows and jealous that she does not care to have their service. They say that she is proud and of a foul mood, but she is not! And you, Beregond, even you who are so kind and good, my great friend who loves my lady's brothers so well, _how _can you say that of their sister?"

Beregond caught her as she turned to push at him and held her by the arms, dimly aware that he had never done such a thing to a woman, treating her as he would a rowdy drunkard, not least because he smarted at being, to her, only a friend. Was this all that their meetings of the past two years had come to; nothing but friendship on her part? "My apologies, Elené, for I did not mean to insult your lady. But what of you? Is it right that you should serve her alone with none to help you when such things happen?" And he felt her hands upon his chest as she tried to push herself away from him, and watched as her frozen eyes melted somewhat.

"But I do not care, Beregond! All of those women think that I am simply grateful for her choice to make me her companion rather than any other, but it is far more than that." Her smile as she looked up at him was painful, perhaps for her as well as for he. "You know what it is that I say, do you not? The Lord Boromir and Faramir raised you up, and yet you love them for more than that, not for what they have done for you but for their own selves, for their goodness and wisdom, and you love them as you would your own brothers, your own father-"

"Forgive me, Elené," he cut in, releasing and drawing his hands to his sides once more, "but I would not speak of such things."

"You would not? But why?" She drew away from him, her smile gone. "Is it not true, then? You have no regard for them save for bringing you to greater renown? I had thought…"

"No, Elené, you mistake me. I do hold the Lords Boromir and Faramir in great honor in my heart, as you hold the Lady Nienor in yours. But I had thought that there would be room for others in your heart as well."

He had not dreamed that he would confess his love for her in such a way. The fever died from him as he saw her confusion, her parted lips so close and yet so far from him, her warm breath upon his chin as she breathed out. "You, Beregond? You think that you would be in my heart above all others?"

"Yes, but I see now that it will never be." He let her go and turned from her, and after two or three heart beats he heard something catch in her throat or her very mouth itself, he did not know which, and then she turned and fled from the courtyard.

Beregond sat down upon the bench once more and, man of one and twenty as he was, had to fight the urge to weep. She would not come back to him. How could he have been so foolish as to say such things to her? And about the one to whom she owed so much, whom she adored. He had ruined their companionship, and without that how could love ever follow?

"Bloody void," he muttered, not trusting himself to blaspheme with any other words. "O bloody, stinking void."

The shadows were growing ever greater as he made his way back, at length, to the barracks, where he had been teased so about his lady love and where now, if anything, he would be the cause of his comrades' jokes for losing her without reaping any benefit of the chase. He doubted that he would even heed their words. What did it matter that they had never kissed, that their only embrace could hardly be seen as such? They would never meet in close quarters again, for her love for her lady was the greatest that she could muster and she would not wish for that adoration to ever be given against her will to another.

Could he choose another, another person that he might wish to share his life with? After he had dreamed, however foolishly, of the children that they might have had – such a foolish thing to think; how should they have raised children, with the threat of the shadow growing ever greater in the sky and in the land. It had been a dream, however beautiful, and now he had awoken and must face harsh reality once more.

He could not even recall the name of the warden on guard duty at the entrance to the barracks, but the guard clearly knew him for he smiled and called out as he approached. "Welcome back, Beregond! What, truant for all the evening? Where have you been, besides with your lady?" He wished that whatever the man had eaten before he had gone on duty would rise up his gullet and choke him.

"None of your concern," was all that he said, as he made to walk past the guard, but a grip was suddenly upon his arm as the man pulled him around and pointed back from where he had just come.

"Clearly you were somewhere, for look! – You left one behind you who follows even now."

Beregond turned, and thought for an instant that he dreamed again; for Elené walked up the street towards him with the last dying strands of Arien's light at her back and the flicker of the newly lit torches bright upon her face and in her eyes, giving her the look of one almost fey, a songstress or a maiden riding into battle and death. But what caught his own eyes the most was her hair; for, tidy and ordered as it had always been, now it was as if she had thrust her hands into the design and worried it as a dog did a bone, and yet had not torn it loose from the bindings. One straggling lock fell down by the side of her face, and it blew gently with her own breath as she marched to and halted in front of him.

"I wish to speak with you further, sir, to make apology for snubbing you earlier this evening." Her voice was thick and throbbing, and he wondered if she had been crying, though there were no traces of tears upon her cheeks.

He let her lead him from the entrance as the guard hooted behind them, calling to Elené to deliver him back soon so that he might sleep and be fresh in the morning. Into the dark shadow of some building thy walked, so dark that he could see only the barest glint upon the surface of her eyes, and for all that she had come to him it was he who touched her first, his hand brushing the cloth of her sleeve, hardly believing that she was here and had come willingly. Her fingers grasped his and lifted them to be buried deep in her hair and touch her warm scalp, and he knew what it was that she wanted, and he knew that he would give it to her.

He meant to ask if she was certain, but the only word that passed his lips as he pulled her close was a faint question. "Why?"

"I wish to know," was her reply as she pulled at his collar and pushed back his helmet to fall from his head and land upon the ground with a clatter. "I am ready. Show me, Beregond."

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What has happened? Why has she not come back? Why has she been gone for so long, after returning for such a short time? And when she does return, what will I say, and what will I do? I need her aid, loath as I am to admit it. And I need her to tell me of what she did, and why she did it, for I must know.

_My lips are dry for I have pulled off a glove to feel them. They are dry and chapped by the wind that I walked in today. My hands still pain me, but I may feel at my fingertips. I must pick up all that I have spilled when I stood up in my shock, throwing her back_

_Why should she do such a thing? Did she fear anger on my part for what she has done? I could not be angry at her, for certain I would not, I simply wish to know why. I wish to know why she should march in here after meeting with that guard she seems to like so well, the one called Beregond, and seize my face in her hands, and press her lips to mine._

_I have been kissed before, on the cheek and the brow and upon my hand before my burning, but never in such a manner. And by Elené!_ _Elené, my maid, my friend, and my companion in my long days of work, one whom I thought that I knew, and one that I did not know as well as I deemed._

_Why? Why did she do it? For what reason should she wish to do it? Why should she wish to touch me in such a way, why should she wish to do such a thing? What was in her thoughts when she did so? And her eyes, oh, her eyes as she looked into mine all the while as her face was pressed so close to mine, her nose against mine, her lips upon my own!_

_The heat of her skin is still here, for all that the kiss was so quick, so rushed; a quick fumble and then the coolness of the air as she fled._

_I will sit and wait for her. I could not leave even if I wished. Where would I go to? I will wait for her to return once more, and then I will ask her why she chose to do such a thing. It will be a reason that I greatly wish to hear and understand._

_So many twisted thoughts! Let me think clearly. _

_I sit by the table as the need for candles grows ever greater. I am still angry, I remember, for I cannot light the candles for myself. I am angry that I could not bear to wield even a small flame, I am angry that my hands hurt, and I am angry that I have done the work that I had hoped I would do this day, for my pain would not let me. I sit and I wait for Elené, for will make all that is wrong right. She has gone to see that guard, the one called Beregond, as she does every sennight, for they are great friends. I do not let myself care if she does so, save that she is free to choose friends where she wills. All I wish is that she returns soon, for otherwise I must hobble to call for one of the ladies I do not care for to light the lamps and the candles, for I wish to do at least some work before I must retire._

_As I sit there I think of many things that now seem worthless; trade agreements that Boromir has told me of, customs in law courts long since abandoned, words of the Haradrim of the south that I have learned with Elené. I think of many things, of an argument I might construct and then take apart to make again anew, of whether a translation of an ancient story that I have read is as well put as it might be, of all the parchments that I must sort anew. I think of all the things that I wish to do and to achieve. I want to have reached the glory I swore to myself that I would have, when I was a little girl of six, and I wish to fulfill the oath I made three years later. I will do more in this life than be burned by the flames of the Enemy and survive. _

_I long for Elené to return._

_And here she comes at last, opening the door with swiftness and quick words. "I am sorry for causing you to endure so long a wait, my lady." The set of her mouth is hard, and I wonder if she and her friend have quarreled. My Elené is not often roused, but I know that she can be roused indeed. Perhaps Beregond has made mention of her father? Surely he would not be so great a fool as to do that._

"_It is no great matter, Elené." I point to the lamps that remain unlit. "Bring me light, if you please, before I lose the use of my eyes as well as my hands."She bows and moves to do so, but I see that her hands are shaking and that she has trouble striking the tinder and lighting the brand. She does not look away from her work, and as the brand is at last lit the shadows move across her face. She is troubled, and I wonder what it is that I might do to lift her spirits. Perhaps she has no wish to hear or recite further lore this day?"Would you rather," I continue, as I close the book that I have not looked at for the last while, "that we cease the work for this night, and turn our minds to other matters?"_

_She looks up at that and away from her task as she protests. "Oh, no, Lady Nienor! I would not wish to take you away from your reading. We have taken many days to find all of these books for your study, and there are still some hours until your time of rest. Now that there is light, you might go on long into the night."_

"_It is not I that I think of, but you," I retort, and her fingers halt in progress to another candle. "You are in ill humor, for my eyes are still useful and have shown me thus. What is it that troubles you, my Elené? You know that you might tell me anything, anything at all, and it would not harm you in my sight?" _

_My words do not bring her peace. Her fingers hold the brand until it burns all away and she gasps and drops it, and then quickly treads upon it so that no spark shall spread. She holds her fingers; the very hand that she cut a year ago and which I cried over. I do remember now. "We have not had great luck with our hands this day, have we, my lady?"_

"_We have not indeed." I have never had great luck with my hands, it would seem. I hold them out. "Here. Let me see. Perchance I can ease your pain, as you have eased mine."_

_And then it begins. Elené turns to me and the light of the few candles shines in her eyes, and her mouth opens and closes and her breath quickens in her breast. Now she looks almost wild, and I worry for her, for perhaps the pain is greater than I thought, and perhaps there is something more than that in my worry, and I rest one hand upon the rest of my chair and push myself up and to my feet. _

_I would ask her what is wrong, but she steps forward, so swift that I step backwards and would stumble were it not that I keep my hand upon the rest. And then I feel her hands, warm upon my cheeks as they have been warm upon my back and about my waist, a mix between harshness and softness, and strangely damp too. And then her face is close, far too close as she stands upon her toes to reach, and strands of her hair trace across my skin, and her lips brush against mine and she kisses me. _

_It lasts for a heartbeat, perhaps two, and I look into her eyes and she looks into mine. And then her warmth and her touch and some of the light is gone, for a candle blows out in the wake of her flight and I hear only faintly a whisper of regret, a plea for pardon that she does not believe will be given. I am left in the room with two candles alight and the memory of her upon my cheeks and brow and lips._

Why? _Why did she do such a thing? Why should she want such a thing? What does she want of me, what does she wish of me? What _can _she want of me? And what can I give her, wounded and broken thing that I am?_

_I wait in the dark as the last of the candles goes out once more. I know that if she returns, when she returns, something will have changed between us. And what shall I do then. She is my dearest friend, closer only less than my brothers. She is part of what I am. _

_I could not countenance living out my days without her. But how could I live with this, unresolved and unnamed, between us?_

_I do not understand. Here, in the dark and in my loneliness, I do not understand._

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This isn't going to turn into a slash fic either. Calm yourselves if you're outraged, and sorry if you're disappointed.

**In case anyone is wondering what on earth just happened, I believe the phrase is 'shagging yourself straight'. Or whatever the Middle-Earth equivalent is. I personally don't know what on earth Elené's sexuality is; she was a rather slippery character when it came to this issue. She could be bisexual, homosexual or simply very confused, it's up to you, although the latter seems most likely. **

**The one who has caused her such confusion, however, I have a definite idea about. This hopefully answers a question one reviewer asked a while back; yes, I believe that Nienor is something of an asexual. (Take note: this does **_**not **_**mean that she is a slug, for anyone wishing to be funny. Asexuality is a term meaning that some people apparently simply do not experience sexual attraction. Whether it's true or not is, again, up to you. Makes perfect sense to me.) It's somewhat in her nature in any case, but remember that while she was growing up she wasn't exactly surrounded by the positive aspects of romantic relationships. Yep, the whole business of Felia and Boromir is still having repercussions, to say nothing of her parents. Even if she hadn't been burned, there is very little chance that she would have been interested in a physical relationship with **_**anyone**_**. Fortunately for her (in a way), she now has an excuse to keep the boys - and girls - away; she isn't in any condition to be making wild passionate love, nor will she for a long while, if ever.**

**Note on the swearing: in the Middle Ages, parts of the body and the functions thereof were not really considered swear words, but saying something like 'bloody--" or "God's wounds!" or even "Jesus!" was a real no no, since – guess what? – that's taking the Lord's name in vain, folks! But people most likely did it anyway. Middle Earth doesn't have much of an equivalent of Hell, but I thought the Void would do just as well.**

**Finally, a last minute apology for anyone who wasn't expecting what will probably be the only kiss in this thing until we get to book four! You poor starved shippers…**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!


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